Scenes and Characters Illustrating Christian Truth

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SCENES ANDCHAlilMJTEllS,

* . ■ ■«

ILLUWTRAVIN6 i * .*-

. ■ i ^ •

cfiRisTiAN truth: -tV

Ho. I.

jTRIAL AND .^LF-DISCIPtlNi:.

BY THE AV^HOE

or <*JAlfft8 TALBOT," " THK FAOTOBT OIRL,** Am.

BOSTON AND CAMBRIDGE:
JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY.

• 18 3 5.

JSTK

•>:,i

'*

t

»

• -

,• •■

ADVERTISEMENT.

It is the object of the series of little publi-
cations, of which this is the &st, to present
familiar illustrations of some of the important
practical principles of religion, and to show,
by an intermixture of narrative and discussion,
how they operate in the government of the
heart and life. I have been so happy as to
secure the pen of several able writers, who
■will be found, I trust, not unworthily to treat
the several topics proposed to them. The
series will probably consist of six or eight
numbers, of somewhat larger size than the
present, and be published at intervals of four

or five weeks.

H. WARE, Jr.
Cambridge, February 10, 1835.

ft

TRIAL

AND

SELF-DISCIPLINE.

BY THE AUTHOR

OF "JAMBS TALBOT,'* "THE VACTORT GIRL," IcO.

Hit warflure la wifUii. There, nnfiitigued,

Hif fervent epirit labors. There he flshti.

And there obtaine freeh triurophe o'er himtelf

And n^ver-wilbering wreathe, compared with which

The laorelc that a Cciar reaps are weeds.

Cowrxa.

BOSTON AND CAMBRIDGE:
JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY

18 35.

Eotered, aecoraniK to act of Congrefs, in the year 1835, by Jambs
MuNKOB & Co., in tlie Clerlc*f Office of the Diftrict Court of tbe
Dittrkt of MasMctiaMiU.

•TXRxoTrrxo »r r. a. wblli ard co.

BOfTOR.

CONTENTS.

Cbap.

1. Discontent at Woodland .

2. Change at Woodland . .

3. The Farewell

4. Study

6. The Farmer's Family .

6. Sunday at Chestnut Hills .

7. Peaceful Days at Woodland

1

. 9
20
39
. 59
. 79
. 93

I The original, from which the character of Phillie
has been .drawn without ezaggreration, was intimatcljr
known to the writer through the long period of more
thsA thirty years.]

-.^

TRIAL AND SELF-DISCIPLINE.

Chapter I.

DISCONTENT AT WOODLAND.

Skteral years had now elapsed since Judge
Thnrston had retired from business. His ad-
vanced age might have authorized such a retreat ;
but frequent fainting fits induced by a disease of
the heart rendered it unavoidable. And willing
to disengage his mind from the care and bustle
of the world, he readily yielded to other hands all
occupations but those which he found in devout
meditation, in books, and rural pleasures.

An only grandaughter, her husband, .and her
infant took the place in his heart of connections
which death had long ago severed. But amidst
the vicissitudes incident to a long pilgrimage^
Woodland, his'fevorite residence, still retained
objects familiar to his youth. The ^ook still
hurried across the lawn with its unchanged,
tinkling music; the robin was still seen, alter-
nately tripping and pertly erecting its little fig-
ure, in the lane through which he had passed to

1

$ DISCONTENT A^' WOODLAND.

school, or was heard amongst the branches
which his boyish agility had climbed; and here
and there a neighbor's face brought with it the
remembrance of early life If these objects were
dear to him, the Judge was no less so to the in-
habitants of C*****, who always delighted in an
intercourse with the owner of Woodland. His
white hair, his still majestic, though stooping
figure, his serene forehead, with the deep, thought-
ful expression of his eyes, might have inspired
unmingled awe, had not a smile peculiarly be-
nignant won the heart to love and confidence.
The spirituality of his mind was singularly con-
veyed by the tones of his voice; it se^mea as if,
by his frequent intercourse with Heaven, they
had caught a force and sweetness, which nature
alone could not have imparted.

It was thought strange by some, that, with
such an example constantly before her, Mrs.
Spencer should not have made more elevated
moral attainments. ** She has been an unshorn
lamb," was the apology made by an old nurse
of the family, '' we can't expect a fleece where
there is no shearing." Such an apology could
hardly have served for Mrs. Spencer, to a casual
observer, as she paced back and forth from the
sofa to the window with a countenance fiill of
athxiety. ''Why this restlessness, this alarm?
what is it you fear, my dear?" asked her grand-
father.

'' I have no very definite apprehensions," was
the reply; ''but I am always uneasy when my
husband stays beyond the usual hour."

I

P1SC05TSNT AT WOODLAND. 9

"The usual hour has but just amyed.— *
Come, my dear, stand bj me, and take lessons
of repose from this soft picture. Do you see that
narrow cloud? The evening star is behind it.
I saw it enter and am watching its return.
There it comes gliding along with replenished
lustre. Another cloud intercepts it. Ah, there
it is again. What a striking emblem of human
life! Do you observe, Emma? it emerges now
still brighter; like a good man coming out from
the darkness of calamity.'*

*' It is beautiful, I allow; but excuse me,
grandpapa, for not enjoying it now. I see other
stars appearing, it must be growing very late.-—
What can detain Henry.*' And releasing her
hand from her grandfather's, she rang the bell
violently. Phillis appeared. " Send John to the
gate ; tell him to look and bring me word wheth-
er Mr. Spencer is coming."

"He is riding up the avenue now," replied
Phillis.

Mr. Spencer soon made his appearance ; and,
being quite unconscious of the perturbation he
had occasioned, afler having given various letters
and newspapers to the Judge, quietly seated him'^
self at the tea-table.

" It was really unkind of you, Henry, to stay
so late; I have been watching for you Mil my
patience is quite exhausted."

" I am sorry, my dear; I was not aware I had
much exceeded my customary hour;"isaid Mr.
Spencer, taking out his watch. " You see I have
not; it is only twenty minutes past the time,

4 DISCONTENT AT WOOPLANQ.

And for those I can account to your entire satis-
faction. The carpets Mr. Mercer sent for, ar-
rived yesterday ; I was detained by selecting one,
and giving orders for its conveyance this evening
by the wagon."

'^I am really thankful," cried Emma, '^that
they have come at last. Mrs. Montague has not
been here the last three months without testify-
ing how much her taste is offended at the want
of congruity between our new mirrors ajnd the
defacea carpets. ' '

The evening had not far advanced, when
Fhillis came to say that the carpet had arrived.
Directions were given to have it brought into the
parlor. With John at one end and Fhillis at
the other, the heavy roll was laid before its im-
patient mistress. One end was soon disentangled
from every impediment to its display; and figure
afler 6gure unfolded in due and elegant propor-
tion, as with exulting admiration it was unrolled
and held up by Fhillis. Emma looked at it a
few moments in silence; then, turning to her
husband with an expression of mingled disap-
pointment and reproach, *' How could you possi*
bly," exclaimed she, ''select this carpet.? It does
not match with the curtains at all."

*'The ground is blue;" answered Mr. Spen-
cer, looking alarmed, and hastily rising from the
table for the advantage of a better light; *'I
thought it was exactly what you wanted."

''I do want a blue ground, but not so dark a
shade."

The husband suggested that colors assumed

OISCONfENT AT WOODLAND. 5

different hues by candle-light. Phillis held one
corner up, now this way, and now that, hoping, by
thus changing the light, to catch the shade most
favorable to the wishes of Mrs. Spencer. *• Your
manoeuvering, Phillis, is all in vain,*' said she
impatiently; ''the color will never be the one 'I
want."

'* Perhaps the morning will give you perfect
satisfaction, my dear, said Mr. Spencer."

** How can you be so thoughtless, Henry? Is
it not for the evening I chiefly want the room for
which it is intended? Have you pot observed
Mrs. Montague's drawing-room, how beautifully
every color of the furniture harmonizes ?"

** I never have noticed it," was the frank ac-
kpaowledgment.

** You never notice any thing I wish you par-
ticularly to observe."

Quick as an electric flash might be seen the
revulsion of poor Phillis's feelings, as she hastily
obeyed the command to remove the carpet in-
stantly out of sight. This ebullition of angry
feeling subsided into a low-spirited, self-dissat-
isfied state of mind, little disposed to ^ive or re-
ceive pleasure through the remainder of the
evening. And Emma continued taciturn, till,
on retiring to her chamber for the night, Phillis,
who was in attendance, mentioned a distressing
casualty which had just befallen one of the chU"
dren of Dr. Campbell, the clergyman of C*****.

** There is nothing but trouble, I think, in this
world," said Emma, in a tone as if she thought
herself much afflicted.

♦

i

^^;-6

DISCONTENT AT WOODLAND.

" There is a great deal o^ comfort as well as
trouble," replied Phillis meekly; ** but trouble is
oflen better for us ia the end than comfort."

** Why, Phillis, what good do you think it will
do Mrs. Campbell, who has had sickness in every
|K>ssible form in her family through the past year,
to have poor Caty's fractured arm added to the
list?"

'' I do not know exactly what good it will do
her; but I am certain, it will be blessed to her, if
ahe makes a right use of it. I am sure such a
loving master as. Jesus would never require his
followers to take iip a burden every day, if it was
not designed to give them strength in the end."

" That is true, Phillis; and yet I never can see
the connection between sorrow and improvement.
My troubles injure rather than make me better."

" Your troubles?" said Phillis with a mournful
smile; ** you don't know what trouble is. You
have always been like a chicken under its moth-
er's wing; no harm has ever come to you. But
Mrs. Campbell has gone through many trials, and
yet she is very bright and cheerful. Sometimes
when I am going by the Academy, and see the
boys at their gymnastic exercises, it reminds me
of the struggles of the good; — the harder they
are, the more strength a person gains."

Emma's spirits had recovered their accustomed
tone. At the breakfast-table she was herself
again, and listened when her husband spoke of
an interesting piec^ of intelligence in the paper
of tho prececungj^vening. ''You allude," said
ihe JuGge, *' to tkj| freedom which has been given

4

-''.:

♦

DIfiCONTENT AT WOODLAND. 7

* '•■.

to the slaves in some of the English West^In-
dia islands. I was rejoiced to see it, — I re-
joice for the master as well as for the slave. For
fwherever liberty has been given to him from con-
scientious motives in the master, the latter has
acquired a freedom more perfect than that he
can impart to another. He has gained a power
more extensive than he has ever yet enjoyed
amidst the unbounded sway he has exerted over
his subservient bondmen. Personal interest is a
strong chain; and he who can break it when it
interferes with the rights of oti|ers, escapes from
a more injurious bondage than ne can force upon
his fellow creatures. But selfishness is not the
only prison into which we cast ourselves. We
are in the strictest sense enslaved, when we con-
fine our attention to objects which are in them-
selves fugitive and worthless."

Emma understood, hy the manner in which
the few last words were uttered, that they were
designed for her. She felt the reproof, and was
desirous to excuse herself. ''Do you not think,
sir," said she, ''that there are great differences
in native strength of mind ? Some have a power
of resistance ; they can be firm in the very mo-
ment of temptation, and can come off conquer-
ors amidst a host of assailants."

*' There is, no doubt, my dear, some native
difference ; but the power to resist is given to all,
exertion alone is wanted, with prayer for divine
aid. We have various faculties bestowed, the
exercise of all of which is necessary to our well-
being; but they must be exercised according to

8 DISCONTENT AT WOODLAND.

their value. The senses are to be brought into
subjection to the intellectual and moral faculties ;
and it is the power of subduing the former dnd
following the guidance of the latter, in which thi
noblest liberty consists; — a blessing, though op^*'
to all, yet very imperfectly enjoyed or estimatea*)^
''But I am sometimes driven by the impulse mi
uncontrollable feeling to words and actions for

* which I am immediately sorry, yet which I could
not help at the moment ; for instance, when a
carpet, long expected, finally arrives, and does
not suit me," sai(^Emma, turning to her husband
with a confiding smile,' sure of the forgiveness
she thus indirectly sought, ''what is to be done
in such a crisis?"

"The wrong did not begin in your unreason-
able dissatisfaction, Emma," replied her grand-
father, " but in the habit of allowing your thoughts
to turn with frequency and an undue interest
upon low, unworthy objects. According to the
direction of our blessed Saviour, we must guard
the springs of thought, watch over and regulate
the curious, complicated machinery within ; that
our outward conduct may be drawn out like a

• beautiful web, with threads of different hues and
figures of various forms, but all conspiring to an
harmonious, perfect whole."

"But how difficult it is," urged Emma, "to
. turn our attention from objects that are constantly
pressing upon the senses."

"Our Saviour admits the difficulty," replied
the Judge ; "he has pronounced it hard for the
rich man to enter heaven. Hence the use of .

OHAITGX AT WOODLAND. 9

afflictions. From the midst of the withered
hopes of thiflworld there often springs up a new
life ; — eyes^Hiich can see the fleeting nature of
Earthly objtctii, eatto which can hear the voices
of the dead;%n activity ready, like Peter, to run
to see the risen Lord, to embrace, like Mary, his
feet, to gaze, like the admiring Apostles, on his
ascending glory, till the exaggerated size and
present glitter disappear from sublunary things^
and they assume their true color and just pro^
portions."

Chapter II.

CHANGE AT WOODLAND.

'* Are you not well ?" anxiously inquired
£mma of her husband, as he stood one morning
waiting for the carriage that was to take him to
the city.

"Perfectly so," was the hasty reply, while an
altemateg^ush and paleness crossed his cheek.
**Have I given you a note," he suddenly asked,
" that I brought out last evening from Mrs.
Davenport ? No ? Then I have been very neg-
ligent.;'

** It is only," said Emma, carelessly reading and
throwing down the note, " an invitation to dine
with her to-day with those tedious Dunmores; I
shall bajthankfiil when this round of bridal parties

10 CHANGS AT WOODLAN]>«

is accomplished. Your aunt desires me to bring
Ellen. I am nothing in her eyeuifehout Ellen,
and she, poor child, would bauj^ng if her re-
semblance to you were l^flHi^Hj^p ^m I not
very ungrateful to this gooJUkunt^Vho love's vaf
better half so well, even though she does see no
worth at all in the other nooiety?"

''Emma," said Mr. Spencer, in a tone bf irri*
lotion foreign to himself, ''will you, or not, give
me an answer?

" My dear husband, what have I said ?" in*
quired the amazed wife.

"Nothing, ydlk have said nothing, my love.
John is very dilatory this morning. I will send
the carriage back for you, and shall depend on
seeing you at three o'clock."

"Oh no, I cannot go this beautiful autumnal
day. My heart always sinks at the first stroke of
the horses' hoofs on the pity pavement, and I
should be quite in despair to be going to listen to
Mrs. Davenport's cold remarks to me, when the
birds are singing their last sweet songs at Wood*
land. Besides, I want to take a run in the forest
with my little darling," cried Emma fondly, as a
child of three years old bounded intoAe parlor,
fresh and blooming, and with fairy-fS^ed light-
ness sprung to her father's arms, and clung
laughing round his neck. He kissed her cheeks
alternately many times. But suddenly released
himself from her embrace, as with wondering
looks she put her vel^get hand to his face "to
wipe away," she said, "the tears which were in
papa's eyes." Though this had escape^pHmma'a

CBANOX AT WOODLAND. 11

notice, her heart was oppressed. She had diso-
bliged her husband, she had selfishly consulted
her own inclination ; and now, when free to in-
4. dulge it, the promiseid pleasure seemed tasteless,
^he walk was delajed till Ellen's entreaties
could be no longer resisted, and she sauntered
through woods, those palaces of nature, with an
air as listless as if there was no majesty in the
lofly pine, or beauty in the lowly violet. *

Such, however, is the power of childish gayety,
especially over a mother's heart, that her spirits
rose as she contemplated the joyous creature dart-
ing like a butterfly from object to object ; — -^^Aow
concealing *herself behind a shrub or tree ; then
starting forward, terrified by her own loneliness,
and clinging to her mother with reiterated shouts
of wild glee ; again running forward and as
hastily returning, to repeat over and over the rap-
turous frolic. '* Hush, hush, Elly ; I hear Phillis
calling." And presently Phillis was seen, hur-
rying on as fast as her enfeebled limbs would
allow. "Stop," cried Mrs. "Spencer, "you are
out of breath, Phillis ; wait till I come up to
you." But Phillis heeded not her own fatigue,
till she had announced Mr. Spencer's return
home.

"What can have brousht '|dm home at this
hour?" ^ m

" I don't know," replied PhilnPtrembling with
ill-concealed agitation.

Phillis had been a domestic in Judge Thurs-
ton's family even before Mrs. Spencer's birth.
She had had her own sorrows, much severe sick-

12 CHANOK AT WO&DI.Alfl>.

nefls, the loss of her Nearest relations ; abd hi$r
heart was feelingly alive to every thing that
painfully touched the family she had so 1
served. Through all, she had kept on her eq
course, walking her steady round with quiet sel
command ; her calm countenance receiving, from
any extraordinary conflict within, only a deepen-

Sd shade of gravity. It is no wonder, then, that
Imma took the alarm ; and, though half a mile
from home, she knew not the lapse of a moment
till she was at the door of the room to which her
hui^nd had retired. On entering, she found
hini' standing motionless. A few hours had
wrought a wonderful change. There was a
fixed, unnatural expression of the eyes, while the
deep crimson of his face was dreadfully con-
trasted with streaks of ashy paleness. "My
husband, my beloved husband, speak, speak to
your Emma," cried the distressed wife. An at-
tempt to answer, terminating in a laugh, was the
terrible response. Jn vain she bathed his hands
with her tears, and exhausted every epithet of
tenderness ; — the power of speech seemed de-
nied. Till suddenly, with great effort, he ex-
claimed, "Your grandfather in his old* age is re-
duced to beggary. The officers are now attach-
ing my properfafi they will be here this evening."
The utterance ^PJRhese words operated too power-
fully upon nems weakened by the concealed
anxiety of several preceding weeks. A strong con-
vulsive fit succeeded. Emma, in an agony of ter-
ror, applied, with trembling hands, every remttdy
brought by Phillis, whose presence of mind

CHAirOB AT WOQDLAHD. 13

nevei^ forsook her in the moment of greatest
extremity. All were in vain, till the physician,
who had been immediately called, relieved him
1;^/ copious bleeding.

' . With the return of consciousness, though ex-
tremely exhausted, Mr. Spencer desired an im-
mediate interview with his grandfather. ** Wait
till to-morrow, my deat sir," said the doctor;
•* sleep is very important to you." And drawing
Mrs. Spencer out of the room, ** Your husband,
my dear madam," said he, '* must not be allow-
ed to speak on any subject likely to interest him;
Ihere is an evident determination of blood to the
head, — every thing depei^^upon quiet. I am
apprehensive also for the|||pidge; an agitating
scene may, I fear, bring on one of his parox-
ysms."

•** I have never known them produced by any
mental affection; — my grandfather, you know,
has great self-command."

** I am aware of that,'knd I hope there is no
cause for uneasiness," said the doctor. ''I do
IK>t wish to alarm, but only to put you on your
guard."

When Mrs. Spencer returned to the chamber,
she found her husband commanding Phillis in tha
most imperative tone to allow him to rise; while
she, with the gentlest persuasions, was striving to
quiet the sufii^rer. " Emma," cried he wildly,
** I must, I will see the Judge ; — you shall not •—
you cannot withhold me from him. It is neces-
sary, it is absolutely indispensable. Let me see
hiQi-wliile reason is granted me." Emma cast

2

14 CHAIYOE AT WOODLAND.

a look of deep, . imploring anxiety upon Phillis,
who softly whispered in reply; **Grod hears and
mercifully answers his creatures in the hour of
need."

Mrs. ^peBc6r had daily joined in the family
worship. A glow .of gratitude had sometimes
warmed her heart, — an awe of divine majesty
had occasionally impretRed her mind, — reason
had otlen acknowledged the dependence of the
creature on the Creator. But in the short, fervent
prayer she now offered, there was a feeling alto-
gether new. The path-way to the presence of
God^seemed suddenly opened. No intervening
object obscured thMJbeamings of paternal love.
A confidence of aiBirom the Source of wisdom
and of power imparted an internal strength she
had never before experienced. **You shall see
my grandfather," said she calmly. ** I know his
presence can never be injurious to you. I will go
and bring him myself."

She opened the door of her grandfather's study,
a remote apartment, where he had been readings
undisturbed by the painful events which Emm{i
, had now come to communicate. The doctor's in-
timation that dangerous consequences might arise
from any uncommon excitement, and the perfect
knowledge she knew he had of her grandfather's
case, filled her with a sudden, uncontrollable
dread as she stood un perceived in his venerable
presence. She retreated, hesilatingbetween con-
flicting fears. Again her uplifted heart sought
the firmness that it needed, the aid which is never
withheld fi*om the sincere supplicant. She gentlv

CHANGE AT WOODLAND. 15

touched her grandfather's arm to gain attention,
and with quiet resolution hriefly conveyed the
tidings. The result proved that her hopes were
not unfounded. Though surprised, at the pecuni-
ary embarrassment, and pained by the iilness of
Mr. Spencer, there was no sudden irruption of
feeling, no violent breaking-up of the barriers that
ffuarded his serenity. The resources collected
for the hour of tribulation were at hand to meet
the emergency, and he stood at the bed-side with
a peaceful benignity that seemed at once to infuse
into every mind a kindred composure. Phillis
seized the opportunity to retire from the room,
fearing lest Mr. Spencer, not noticing her pres-
ence, might speak of private concerns not proper
for her to hear.

Afler a pause of a few moments, he turned to
the Judge, and grasping his hand, said, ''My
affairs, sir, are in a desperate state. Yet it is
not for myself, but for you, that I am thus dis-
tressed."

"Have you done wrong, my son? Have you
designedly injured any one?"

** The only voluntary wrong has been the con-
cealment from you; which was from an ill-judged
tenderness to my wife, together with an unwil-
lingness to give you anxiety. I hoped to strug-
gle through."

**Say no more, my deai; Henry; if you have
not done violence to your own conscience, fear
not for any wound this may inflict on the feelings
of your wife."

''But your own fortune, sir, is involved in the

16 CHANGS AT WOODLAND..

general wreck. This place will be attached im-
mediately; — ? Woodland, your home, is lost."

"BjB caJm, my son," said the Judge ; ** * In
my FathdI's house are many mansions.' The
loss of an earthly home may help me to perceive
with a clearer vision those blessed abodes. Take
some repose now ;« to-morrow we will speak on
the subject."

Many weeks elapsed before Mr. Spencer was
again able to attend to business. A nervous
fever, which threatened his life, yras the conse-
quence of an extreme anxiety indudi^d by a series
of mercantile failures, which finally produced the
dreaded catastrophe. He had been admitted a
partner of Mr. Davenport, his uncle, ^ merchant
in New Orleans. The house was considered
too firm to be affected by ordinary commercial
fluctuations; and Judge Thurston felt himself
safe in gratifying a desire to promote the interest
/ of Mr. Spencer by giving hfs name as security
to the full amount his fortune would warrant.
Caution, he oflen acknowledged, would have dic-
tated another course. At times he evei^ doubted
whether it was right thus to put his property
at hazard; but he was led on by a benevolent
sympathy in the concerns of his grandson, know-
ing that, in his insulated state, there was none
immediately dependent upon him, but those whom
he was thus endeavoring to serve. It was let-
ters from Mr. Davenport confirming the dreaded
bankruptcy, which had driven Mr. Spencer to the
state of despair in which he had returned home.
As soon as his health woultP admit, an arrange-

V

• t;HANGB AT WOODLAITD. 17

«

ment of hid ^airs was commenced; Woodland,
of course fellinto the hands of his creditors. But
they gen^ously allowed to. Judge Thurston a por-
tion o^ his property sufficient for a comfortable
Support. .

How 'Emma would have borne this reverse is
uncertain, had she not, during the sickness of her
busband, arrived at results, to which no force of
reasoning, tinai^efl by heavenly light, could have
brought her. 3"^ had seen the object of her
tenderest Ip^j^ — him on whom she had clung for
support, delfriqius, helpless, — his existence hang-
ing, as it were, by^th^ most attentiated thread.
But ,frpm the bed-side of this enfeebled being,
*he had looked to the Giver of life; her heart
had expanded in view of *his love, it had been
elevated in -the contemplation of his power.
Lessons of wisdom had poured in upon her mind,
as she saw the grandeur and eternal nature of the
spiritual world, in contrast with the weakness and
fugitiveness of those objects, on which she had
hitherto reposed. The present had receded, had
lost its blinding influence, amidst the deep emo-
tion ; and her eyes were opened, not only to the
vanity of the outward world, but to her own
unworthiness, to her own inward deficiencies.
Nfew desires, — new spiritual desires, mingled
with those for her husband's safety. These im-
pressions were not transitory, — they did not pass
away with her husband's sickness; as was evinc-
ed by the solicitude she discovered to bring her
mind into harmony with the change in h^r fortune.

A striking evidence of this was soon witnessed

2*

♦.

IB\ ' ' * " CHJLNO« >T WOODLAlf jl»

in her acquiesc^ce in a proposal^nadei'by Mrs.
Davenport to unite their families. ilBmma's feel-
ings would have strongly revolted agaiftst such an
arrangement, had not her recent refie^tioss come
to her aid. And when it was urged by. her grand-
father, that the scheme would join Ic^w^my with
her husband's convenience, and*.^ighly gratify

Mrs. Uavenport, wno had almo» |^a|ental claims
upon Mr. Spencer, she readihr ^idlRd, and en-
deavored to subdue the disirfHiigfibn' she felt to
a close contact with her aunt. *';^B^ults of that
lady's temper Emma had* |^Qit'^itIi|eW borne with
a forgiving spirit. « She j^lQi|^6d* ^Witb sorrow 'on
her past want of' forl^^aranc^^y ^^and rhsqfgpd to
show in future that sl^'Was^not unmindful of her
duty to the beneikctFess of hef husband. Mr.
Spencer had been committed in 'etily childhood,
by his last surviving parent, to the cafe of Mrs.
Davenport, who, amidst whatever perverseness
occasion^ly manifested itself towards others, had
uniformly bestowed upon him the tenderness of a
mother's love. When she left her native village
in New Hampshire to become the wife of Mr.
Davenport, she 'rejoiced in the enlargement of
her means to bless this object of her devoted at-
tachment. And she now proposed a union of
the families, looping in some way to lighten the
burden or promote the interest of her nephew,
even while deeply suffering herself from the ad-
verse circumstances in which she was equall}
involved. Emma felt that she had been culpabli
in her insensibility to the kindness which hac
baan thus lavished on her husband, and shr

CHAHGK a: wuiDL&iJD. '. ' ':^9

^ entered with alacrity on the prapoFatiom uecea-
' 8ary for theirnew mode of life.

" We atp^oiag to leaVe Woodland," said ihe
to Phillis, TIB 'they were one day engaged together
in reinoviiigV>^e pictures, " and must part with
all our serv^Ats. 1 have a little project for you
'which I am sura will lie agreeable. You ksow
the pretty roum with the vine over the window,
that you always liked so much in your cousin's
house. 1 have inquired and find you can rent it.
There you cBn, live, and with the work "

" O, say no more," interrupted Phillia. "I
cannot leave you. Wherfe you go, I must go, I
can work;, I can do mor^, a great dealmore, than
you have efer allowed me to do."

" But wt can no longer remunerate your aer-
vicea as, w« hmve doiR."

" I shdl not want any thing, I have but tine re-
quest,-^ if you will only grant that, — I have been
trying to ask you aeveral weeks, but could notget
courage."

" What is it?" inquired Mrs. Spencer eagerly;
"lam-sure I shall be pleased to grant' whatever
you can ask."

" It is only," said PhilJia, drawing a little book
from her pocket, and presenting it with a trem-
bling band, " it is only that you will accept thia."

Tears fell from Mrs. Spencer's eyes, when ehe
discovered' it was the Savings Bank book, in
which her deposits had been recorded. "And
was this the favor you were afraid to aak? "

" It is 90 tittle I waa ashamed to o9er it; but
if you will accept it, it may do aom« small gool"

no ' TH^ FAREWELL.

" It will do ahgreat deal of good," replied Mrs. ^
Spencer, ** if you will take care of it forme, Phil-
lis ; and when I am in want you 811^1^130 the first
friend I will call upon."

** But why will you not take it 'and use it at
once?" ,

**Ihaveno present use for *rioney," replied
Mrs. Spencer; '' keep it for mei^ill 1,'hui in need."

Soon after this, a saleof the.fi^rnitarQ at Wood-
land took places Emma was surprised to find
several pieces which she had {tartidhlarly valued,
marked as purchased for her;«flitid pn inquiry she
found that Phillis had Employed an agetft to buy
them with the money that she had *irugally laid up
from her wages.

Chapter III.
THE FAREWELL.

I AM afflicted," said Mr. Spencer, addressing
nimself to Judge Thurston, as he rapidly paced
the room on the evening before the departure of
the family from Woodland, *' at points where I
can least t>ear it. To make my wife happy, to
be a blessing to you, was my highest earthly aim,
my fondest desire. Was this unworthy of a son
and husband?"

** It was virtuous," replied the Judge, ** and
the pHOwer of exercising this disposition still

THE FAR£WKLL. 1^1

remaiuv. Grod has oDly withdrawn the meatia in
which you too much trusted. He can appoint
other. ways, by which you may make us equally
happy, and at the same time advance ten-fold
your own improvement. Some quality is to be
brought forward by this adversity, which has not
yet had its due share of culture. It is to nurse
your patience, to increase your fortitude, to
strengthen your faith in an all-pervading Provi-
dence, or to quicken your perception of the suita-
bleness of the means which God uses for your
moral education. Some faculty of the mind,
some virtue of the heart, some spiritual power
will be the reward, if you run with a co-operating
will to meet the designs of Him who ruleth over
all events.

"Life," continued he, **may be compared
to a school, composed of children endowed
with properties of general resemblance, yet
varying in disposition and degrees of intellect.
A judicious teacher . appoints to each the task
best suited to unfold his mind and cultivate his
affections. There are amongst them the idle^
headstrong, and disobedient, who gain nothing
from the labor and teaching which are bestowed
upon them; others docile and teachable, who de-
rive all the advantage his instruction is designed
to impart. From this last class let us select one.
He receives the lesson appointed, — it may be a
geometrical query. The diagram before him
appears but a confused entanglement of lines.
But he fixes his attention; — he labors at first
«t a single point; — some light dawns upon his

23 THE FAREWBLL.

mind, ^- he urges on, — the task is severe, — his
hand is at his forehead, — he is entirely absorbed.
No whispered enticements of his companions can
withdraw his attention; the appointed work must
be accomplished. He has nearly mastered it,
when a new difficulty arises; his ardor is damp-
ed; tears suffuse his eyes. But he looks at his
benignant master, and remembers that hj^ has
been directed to ask his assistance. He arises
to go to him, and is met on the way. The tea^ch-
er has noticed his efforts, and is as ready to give
the aid as the child to deniand it. He wipes
away the tears, and encourages by comipenda-
tion, — removes the difficulties by a clearer expla-
nation of principles, and sends him back to his
studies with a lightened heart and renewed ener-
gy. The demonstration is made out. The con-
scious exercise of potver, united with obedience
to his master, imparts dignity to the cheerfuluess
with which he seizes the opportunities for recrea-
^tion. He would gladly go. on the next day with
what has- now become agreeable to his taste.
But his master assigns him a new course of study.
His memory, it may be, is now tasked, or his
fancy is put to the stretch; — but he struggles on
till his education is completed; he receives the
approbation of his friends, and enjoys within him-
self the reward of his labors. A companion of
equal capacity, who has refused to obey, who
has been unwilling to apply himself, — frivolous
when he should be serious, angry when he ought
to be penitent, his activity wasted in mischief,
noble powers lost through idleness, bad disposi-

THE FAREWELL. SS

tions nourished by vain repinings or in open re-
bellion, — has destroyed the happiness, and misl-
ed the honors he might have secured, by neglect-
ing the means of improvement which were before
him."

** I admit, sir," said Mr. Spencer, ** the ne«
cessity of activity, of virtuous effort, for the at-
tainment^ of happiness; but can virtue be arrived
at only through suffering? Would the liand be
le^'^waf- 'to us because it^ithheld afflictions?
Should ^e love God less for not afflicting us? I
caniMit see the necessity of this painful apparatus,
—-these outward disappointments, — ^these inward
struggles."

** An unchangeable course," replied the Judge,
** of what we term prosperity, is too limited, its
boundaries are too narrow for the exercise of our
whole nature. The various circumstances in
which we are placed are each necessary to draw
out the latent powers, to give strength to the
inner man, to bring its attributes to light. Hard-
ships, privations, sorrows, thus become our great-
est blessings. They are implements with which
(jrod furnishes us, to labor on his building. — Noble
privilege ! to be fellow laborers with Him in the
great work of giving life to the soul! Life and
de<Uh are figures frequently used by our Saviour
to represent holiness and sin. Holiness, in his
language, is a new birth; — his doctrine is a living
spring; his way is emphatically life, St. Paul,
in imitation of his Master, calls bun who is gov-
erned by the spirit in opposition to the flesh, ** a
«eto creature." It is in this new creation, — ^this

purer essence, if I may bd express it, that Ood

Sermits his creatures to be fellow workers ■with
imself He raises us by the most endearine, en-''
Dobling communion; ^e unites us, through Jeacfl,^
to himself, by permitliag us to {laiticipate id his
beneficent designs, " •' ■

"Your view, sir, throws light," interrupted*
Emma, " upon a passage which I linve ncTer be>
fore so %ell understood. We are directed by St.
Paul ' to work out qv own salvation, fop it ia God
which worketh in u*' " '

" Yes, my dear; we are called ' God^s husbilta-
dty;' and arc thus animated to labor to follow tlM
guidance of ku^ eye, and pursue the path he lay*
open before us, sure that at last we shall be
refreshed with draughts from the river of hi«
pleasures."

The conversation was interrupted by visiten,
who came to express their sorrow at parting wiUi
a family so much esteemed. Even Mrs. Mon-
tague forgot awhile her favorite theme, and made
no attempt to initiate Emma into the delightfiif
mysteries of the latest fashion. But her habitanl
levity could not be long suppressed; and turning
to Mrs. Campbell, the wife of the clergyman,
"I am sorry," said she, "to see Mr. Spencer
tookiog BO ill. I fear he is allowing trouble to
prey upon his mind too deeply. 1 wish he bad
my faculty of shaking it off. I never allow any
thing to vex me."

"Pray how do you arrive at this happy diipo-
sitionP" inquired Mrs, CampbelL

"Sy amusement," replieid the lady. "H 1

S9

meet vith a inMbrtune, I make Bome ■Hentioa
in n^ u^use, fuAiah an apartment, exercise mj
bttfij in working new coverings for my cKaira or
crteketA If that will not do, I take a little jour-
ney', — a novel, a play, any thing, in short, to keep
the vexing circuinAaoce out of my mind."

" Cnn you always succeed i " aaked Mrs. .
Campbell.

" Yea, when I am in good health. Yet I must
acknowledge I Oo nol find iC^uite so eaiy now u
when I was younger. I am growing nervous,
and am sometimes scarcely able to speak through
ft whole day; but then I seclude myself. You^
know one must not appear in society without
smiles; serenity' is i)uite indispensable to polish-
ed manners. I wonder how Judge Thurston has
HO eminently acquired his graceful tranquillity.
Look, what a sublime tableau! — a perfect Socra-
tes! That mien could only have been acquired
by an early intercourse with high-bred society."

" It was by communion with his own heart,
and not with (he world," said Mrs. Campbell,
" that be attained the quietness you so much
admire. Instead of attempting when ia trouble
to fly from himself by rushing to outward pleas-
ure, he sought a more intimate acquaintance with
the world within. He endeavored to ascertain
for what purpose the trial was sent, what disease it
was designed to curer having discovered that, h«
diligently applied the remedy, and was healed."

"What?" asked Mrs. Montague, "do you
mippose afflictions are sent as punishments f" '

" Not as puni^ments; — this is a probationary

26 THE FAREWELL.

state, not a retributive one; — ^Jpit as means' for
our improvement!" * /

** You suppose, then, that every trial w% nS^t is
designed to correct some fault of the chqyacteir?"

" Such is ray conviction," said Mrs. Campbell.
'' The connection, I allow, is not always obvious.;
but if it leads us to exert self-control, it. will ejer-
tainly do us good."

** Pardon me if I entreat you," (iried Mnk'
Montague, ''^not to^pse that weatuSome word;T—
select any other phrase than self-control, except;
indeed, its synonymes. The very pound of a
word implying so much labor is exhausting. To
be for ever watching one's self, keeping guard,
putting things in 6rdQr, is* tod severe a task.
Such a course would be quite insupportable. I
should feel in perpetual thraldom!"

** And yet it is the only way," said Mrs.
Campbell, *' by which you can arrive at that true
peacefulness you think so becoming."

**0 no," said Mrs. Montague, laughing; **I
can put it on with my fancy dress."

*' And will the semblance of peace demand no
self-conty>l ?" asked Mrs. CampbeU.

"One can endure restraint," was the reply,
'' for a single evening amidst festivity and lustre."

"But are you never in fear," demanded Mrs.
Campbell, "that some turbulent enemy within,
will derange your features and betray the internal
disorder?"

" In that case," answered Mrs. Montague,
" an air still more gay, a still livelier repartee,
throws around one a dazzling veil." — And

. THE FAREWELL. 27

Hirninff abruptly Jtb Mrs. Spencer, she made some
inqpin^s relative/to her departure and domestic
arrtftigements. **Yx)u will take, no doubt, your
excellent Phillis," said she.

** We cannot persuade her to leave us," replied
Mrs. Spencer, "though we fear the city will not
be favorable to her health."

"She is really a treasure," cried Mrs. Mon-
4a||^y 'i^ it* 10^00 unusual to be thus beloved by
o«ir^46mestics. There is something too, particu-
larly pleasing about her, very mild and lady-like,"
continued she, in a tone as if such an application
of these epithets might create a smileu- But the
language was so much in harmony with Emma's
estimate of Phillis, that she perceived no incon-
gruity, and replied that she was not less refined
in character than in manner. " And yet with all
her gentleness," added Emma, ** she exerts great
control over the other servants, and even my little
Ellen yields to her. soft sway much more readily
than to mine."

"Pray how does she -gain this influence?"
inquired Mrs. Montague.

" I do not know, unless it is by her quiet regu-
larity and disinterested care of othsvs. In all her
settled resolutions she perseveres, ho\vever incon-
venient it may be to herself. I have often felt
reproved by her constancy. She undertook,
some years ago, to hear John our gardener read
of an evening; and no indisposition, no fatigue,
has ever induced her to omit it. And it is edify-
ing to hear the ingenious arguments by which
she induces poor reluctant John to adhere to the

28 THE FAREWELL.

rule. From which, we, as well A he, have oeriTvl
benefit; for it has frequently helped to induce a
habit of order, in which when he first came fo us
he was sadly deficient."

** Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Montague; **who
would think there was so much excellence con-
cealed under that jet complexion?"

Mrs. Spencer looked down instinctively, while
a pensive shade passed across, her 'face; il-w^t.
painful to her to hear any coarse allusion tO the
casket in which was such a' ** rare deposit of
Christian graces."

"Prayy" cried Mrs. Montague, rising, "make
my adieu to your admirable Phillis. I shall
never forget the hospitable smile with which
she has so oflen received me at your door."

**Here she is to thank you for your kind re-
membrance," said Emma, as Phillis opened the
parlor door, who replied to Mrs. Montague's
unexpected notice, ^with a timid courtesy and a
look of una^ected modesty.

The next day was one of movement ; but the
lively, despatchful look, that mutually quickens on
occasions of extraordinary bustle, was wanting ;
an air of gravity pervaded all who were engaged
in the preparations for departure. ** I can t see
how it is," said John, as he aided Phillis in
tightening some packages, *' that trouble falls so
often upon good people."

"What do you do," asked Phillis, ** when the
plant that you want to bring forward is too much
shaded?"

'* Why, if the shoots round it are not of much

THE FA&SWBLL. S9

*

valut, I cut them away till the sun can come fair-
ly at it.' »

'' So God does wUh a creature that he loves,"
said Phillis; " he taSes away what comes between
it and the ' sun of righteousness. ' "

** That makes me think of what you read to me
the other night about the vine-dresser. I thought
then it was very natural. It struck my mind, for
it was just as I had done a hundred times ; — prune
away the dead branches from the vine that it
might bear more fruit. That seems to, make it
clear ; that taking away what prevents our coming
to a right growth, and having a right flavor, as it
were, is all in kindness to us. But iJffta, Phillis,
there is another difficulty. The Judge seems to
me pretty near right. I never expect to see a
better man than he is, — I would work for him
now for half wages. But he tells me he'll have
no garden in the city. Now that is a thing I
can't bear the thought of; it makes me very
down-hearted whenever I think that he is to have
no grounds to walk about. But what I was going
to say is this, — the Judge seems to me, as I said
before, about good enough."
, **Do you mean by that," said PhilUs, with a
countenance expressive of deep awe, ** that you
think the Judge is fully prepared to die?"

" That was my meaning," replied John.

'* You would not think so, if you had read the
Bible more carefully. You would have learned
there too much of the character of God to think
any creature good. The heavens are not pure in
his sight, the longest and holiest life that was

3*

so TB£ FAKBWSLL.

♦

cnrer spent will still come short of What K3od
quires. '*

** Then how ean I eyerJu)p^to be -accepted?

be;^^ the Judge, I am

iPoT instead of getting

sure I shall never get upto'hkto.^'

** We shall not, I trust, John,"' said Phillis,
** be measured by a comparison with our fellow
creatures, but according to our own endeavors
to please God. You may never be tried just as
the Judge has been. You may never be called
upon to give up such a pleasant place as Wood-
land. But then, John, you will have your trials
too; an4 if you are patient when they come; if
you retuHIN soft word for a harsh one; if you do
a good deed to him who crosses your path ; if you
are faithful to your employers, and resist every
temptation to dishonest gain ; if you try to over-
come wrong inclinations, and look constantly 4o
Jesus as your redeemer, your ^uide, and rule of
conduct, — then God will look down in mercy
apon you, and will accept your endeavors to
please him."

*' I thank you, Phillis, for this good advice;
but I fear I shall never do so well as you hare
tried to make me. I hope you will pray for me,"
continued John, wiping his eyes with his coat-
sleeve; *' for it seems to me, Phillis, that what
you ask will be listened to, and answered, when
* the voices of some that are thought great in the
world will not even be heard." '

Phillis's reply wlas prevented by orders to have
•the carriage brought round to the door. It was
«oon waiting. While Ellen was impatiently- draw-

THE FAREWELL. 31

•ing her father towards it^ Phillis was depositing
various little article^ that required her particular
care, and Jofei wc^^t^nding at the cai'riage steps
to give his aidmg, aroi to the Judge.

Emma had -yisjited that morning every room,
had looked from every window, had hade adieu
again and again to her walks, her trees, and her
flowers. But her heart yearned for one mor«
look. She flew to the study window, and with
straining eyes eagerly gathered up every part of
the landscape, as if by this intensity of emotion
to imprint it for ever on her memory. On turn-
ing to leave the room, she found her .grandfather
had come there also, not to indulge a useless
sensibility, but to ofler one more devout ^acula-
tion in an apartment sanctified by many prayers.
** My presence shall go with thee," was the
strengthening conviction received in answer.
Emma's offered arm was unheeded as he hasten-
ed to the carriage; a youthful vigor quickened
his step, while a celestial animation irradiated his
countenance. And Woodland was lefl; far be-
hind, when a slight trembling of the lips evinced
the tender sorro# he felt at quitting it. Even
this was unobserved by all but Ellen, who, look-
ing a few minutes with anxious wonder at a sight
so strange, struggled from Phillis 's arms, and
seeking a seat on her grandfather's knee, kissed
his hands over and over, saying, with every new
caress, '^I love grandpapa;" as if this assurance
could not fail to restore his accustomed cheet^l
aspect.

The ^change in Mrs. Davenport's situation htd

j92 THE FAREWELL.

not been less striking than in that of those whom
she was now ip receive as inmates^ And having
attached vast importance ta a handsome estab-
lishment, the reverse she ngw experienced deeply
wounded her vanity, and served to increase the
native harshness of her temper. ' She was con-
sequently not much disposed to overlook the many
little incivilities and neglects of which she con-
ceived, and but too justly, that Emma had been
guilty. The ieelings of the latter were v^y
different. Pleased with herself for having over-
come her strong repugnance to this close union,
she felt more kindly disposed towards her aunt
than she had ever been before. And when the
carriage stopped, in an obscure, dirty street, be-
fore a gloomy house, sympathy overcame every
other feeling, and she hastened forward to meet
Mrs. Davenport with an affectionate warmth she
had never till now exhibited. But she was in-
stantly repelled by the chilling air of indifference
with which Mrs. Davenport returned her saluta-
tion, and the slight touch of the hand which
she had so cordially extended. Yet her own re-
ception was less depressing, than the cold punc-
tilious ceremony with which her grandfather was
received. As soon as possible she retired to
make some arrangements in the room particular-
ly designed for his use. It was in the second
story; from two of the windows a brick wall of
ft neighboring house which might be touched
by the hand concealed every object but its own
dull surface ; the remaining one looked out upon
ft narrow yard, walled up by the surrounding

THE FAREWELL. SS

buildings, bo that the sun could never send one
ray to visit its damp flag-stones. **0,*' cried
Emma, bursting into tears, ''is this our home?"

''Jesus had nowhere to lay his head," said
Phillis, meekly, while tears of sympathy were
trembling in her eyes.

"If I could keep that thought ever in mind! Yet
it is not for myself alone, but my grandfather."

"He has so long leaned upon the Rock of
Ages," said Phillis, "that the world cannot take
away his support. All places have peace for
him. But what will become of Mr. Spencer, if
he sees you sorrowing in this way ? Try to keep
up this evening ; — may be you will feel happier
to-morrow. God is. every where ; and where we
are nearest to him, there is our happiest home;"
said she, in tones of tender humility.

" I will endeavor to obtain a better spirit,"
said Emma. "You may leave me alone now.
But where will you go, Phillis.^ Not to your own
pleasant room at Woodland, and to the compan-
ions who knew and loved you. I am afraid these
strangers will not be thoughtful of your comfort."

" Do not think of that," said Phillis. " I rath-
er fear that I shall not love them enough ; — for
it is loving, you know, more than being loved,
that makes us happy."

When Phillis had left the room, Emma, turn-
ing her eyes from every outward object, sought
an interview with her own soul. The religious
education she had received, and which, amidst
the enjoyments that had surrounded her life, had
ikiled of the practical influence it was designed

34 THE FAREWELL.

to impart, now afforded materials for healthful
meditation. Graham's departure from the coun-
try of his youth, once read merely as an his-
torical fact, now arose to her recollection with
self-applying interest. His prompt obedience,
his clear, unwavering, hope-inspirmg faith, stood
out in reproving contrast with her own present
dejection. In reviewing the history of his life
with its trials and sacrifices, her own blessings
assumed their just proportions. And so deep
was the sense of her ingratitude, that she
would gladly have hid herself from her own in-
spection while the goodness of God was passing
before her; and when from meditation her mind
rose to prayer, it was not resignation, but forgive-
ness, that she sought.

On returning to the parlor, Emma's own feel-
ings invested every thing with a more cheerful
aspect ; she intro(luce4 topics of conversation,
paid kind attention^ to Mrs. Davenport, and be-
fore the evening had closed, was surprised at
the sense of happiness springing up within her.
When the morning came, there were, it is true,
none of the rural melodies to which her ear had
always been accustomed, and to which she had
delighted to listen. But she was still surrounded
by the voices of those she loved, and, in seeking
their good, she soon ceased to regret what had
been lost. If wounded by the hard manner of
Mrs. Davenport, Emma put forth her .patience ;
and rejoicing in the power to exert it, endeavor-
ed to overcome evil with good, while she clung
still closer to those in whose hearts she knew she
had large possessions.

THE FAREWELL. 35

The conCented, cheerful tone of feeling to
which Emma had now arrived, Was ■ suddenly
interrupted by letters from Mr. Davenport, urg-
ing her husband to take charge of some mercan-
tile concerns in India, that would prove highly
favorable to his interest. This proposal was re-
ceived by Mr., Spencer with mingled feelings.
On the one hand, the prospect of doing business
in the city where he was now residing having
entirely failed, he was glad to seize any opportu-
nity for the exercise of useful activity ; but, on
the other, it was extremely painful to put the
resignation of his wife to so severe a test. He
could not summon resolution to name the subject
to her, till his abstracted manner being noticed,
obliged him to acknowledge the cause. Mr.
Spencer was not aware how far the operation
that had been going on in the mind of his wife
had extended, how far she had learned to bring
her will under the guidance of religious principle ;
and was surprised at the manner with which she
received theontelligence, and her ready acquies-
cence in- tke- wishes he had so reluctantly com-
municated. ^There was no out-breaking of grief,
no evidence that imagination had pictured her
own loneliness with selfish exaggeration. An ex-
treme paleness alone indicated a consciousness
of the extent of the sacrifice she was called upon
to make.

The mind sometimes arrives by^ sudden sense
of right to an heroic decision, to which it is diffi-
cult to adhere with a firmness correspondent to
the manner with which it was first formed. It

36 THE FAASWELL. .

was thus with Emma. She had at^nce noblj
yielded to what she found were her husband's
wishes; but when it became necessary to make
actual preparations for his long absence, her mis-

fiving heart was utterly cast down. ''My dear
Imma," said her grandfather, after having more
than once surprised her in tears, '' I am not in-
sensible to your grief, —^I feel the cause deeply;
but we must endeavor to sustain ourselves by
considerations worthy our profession."

**I am sensible," replied Emma, **of my in-
conisistency. I desire — at least I thought I de-
sired, to be a follower of Jesus. Yet I have none
of his spirit, none of his resignation."

''Yours, my dear, is not an uncommon incon-
sistency ; we would be followers of Jesus, yet we
shrink from the perils of his path. We would be
imitators of him, so far as we^ can be'io without
involving any self-discipline, or any of those pain-
ful circumstances in which he was placed. We
would be meek like our Lord, yet we are dismay-
ed at the ridicule, contempt, insult, ttd contra-
dictions, through which thiis temperipwrbe per-
fected; we would he strong to ayercomfir«the se-
ductions of sense, yet repine when no means are
at hand to relieve our wants; the resistance of
severe temptation is glorious in our Guide, yet we
reluctantly submit to the slightest inconvenience.
Jesus lefl the glories of heaven and his father's
bosom to come to our relief; the self-sacrifice
fills us with admiration, we gaze with rapture ;
yet we cannot part with one of our. friends,
though it is often by the rupture of these tio«

THE FAREWELL.

n

alone, that ^r spirit gains freedom for a heaven-
ward direction. Jesus gaY(|;'his life for the re-
mission of our sins, while 'W|i weep at the immo-
lation of a single affeGtioh, though our love is to
be purified and exalted bjihe sacrifice."

''I know, from my own experience, that this is
true. I shrink from trial, and would fain shun
it, even while I am aware that a peculiar virtue
can be formed only through some tried peculiarly
adapted to produce it. We do not, i know, offer
the statesman, whose eloquence charms and moves
a wide community, as a guide to regulate the
movements of the unlettered peasant in his hum-
ble toil; nor hold up as an example to the de-
bilitated, pensive invalid, him over whose free
features exuberant health pours its influence."

"Certainly, not," replied the Judge r **we
stimulate the poor mah to^ his daily task by point-
ing to his industrious fellow husbandman, whose
fruitful fiel4s bear testimony to the faithful tillage
of their owner; and to the sick, we present a
pattern of Jbiig-anduring bodily distress, as an
enoourageiaj^^o the exercise of patience. la
all the common nffairs of life, we are quick to
discern adaptations, we admire them in the econ-
omy of nature, of providence, and of grace; but .
rebel against their particular application to our-
selves, when any suffering is involved."

" It is so difficult," said Emma, ** to give th^se
considerations their due weight amidst the pres-
sure of misfortune! "

"I fear, my dear, it is because we do not
enough meditate upon results, we do not look to

4

98 THE FAREWELL.

the end. W6 are called upon to follow *him
who was acquainteil with grief/ to bear a cross,
not at distant inteHf sis, but daily. The «flesh,
with the affections ' II^. lusts, is not to be oc-
casionally denied, it ik/to be crucified. But
for what purpose is this fliscipline ? It is, that,
haying suffered with Jesus, we may reign with
him, that we may be made heirs with him of an
heavenly inheritance, that we may be crowned
with eternal happiness.",

"But these results," said Emma, "are remote
and unseen, while the pain is present. I do not
mean that this excuses an habitual want of cheer-
fulness, it serves only as some apology for occa-
sional dejection; for I know, that, if our faith
were perfect, the intervening time. would have no
power to trouble and cloud our hopes."'

"The joys of a body life, my dear, are not
entirely reserved for a future state. Virtue and
happiness are closely connected. Virtue is the
root, happiness the flower. It is true that the
blossom is sometimes whirled a\iK^or crushed
by the various accidents to whi<3lA^4S exposed
here; but if the root is safe, it oiften buds and
blooms again, even in this world, with renewed
brightness. It is the doctrine of Jesus, that we
are purified by suffering; he pronounces a bles-
sing upon those who mourn; he declares those
to be unworthy of him who are not willing to
submit to the appointed process. He tells his
disciples, that they shall have tribulations. * Ye
shall indeed drink of my cup,' are his affecting
words. But what are the soothing assurances

STUDY. 3d

with Which they are accoyjiipa^ied! 'I will not
leave you comfortless,* -^ifi^. peace !• give unto
you}* — a peace, which toose who have enjoyed
it, know to be better than all the pleasures of this
world."

Efflitoa looked up to her grandfather with an
expression, which gave assurance that ^he recog-
nised this truth with kindred feeling.

Chapter IV.
STUDY.

Mr. Spencer set sail on the evening of the
seventh of September; and Emma, fearing to
disturb the repose of her grandfather, whose
chamber Was contiguous to her own, retired at
her usual hour, and fell at length into a light
slumber, which was soon broken by a sudden,
strong blast of wind. She started up to listen,
but all was silent, and she hoped it might have
been a dream ; — but again a distant roar ; —
and then, gaining strength in its passage, the gust
came rushing on, and shook the hoiise furiously
in its swift , progress. Another and another fol-
lowed in rapid succession, while to Emma's
excited imagination it seemed as if each was des-
tined to spend its force on the vessel that con-
tained her husband. The first impulse was to fly
to her grandfather to implore his prayers, to seek

40 STUDT.

refuge from th< oxceas of her anxietj under the
shelter of his firm iMid ft'anquillizing presence.
But recollecting that wAad appeared more feeble
than usual, she refirained ; 'and clasping her hands,
damp with the cold sweat that suffused them, she
commended her iiusband to the divine protection,
and strove with her whole internal energy to re*
main quiet amidst the fierce rushing of the ter-
rible element. The distress expressed on her
features alone indicated to Phillis, as she soflly
glided into the chamber and seated herself at the
bed-side, the extent of Emma's agitation. ' ' There
is a high wind round us," whispered Phillis,
** but it may now be calm at sea. The storm
may have been quieted by the same voice that
said to a still wilder tempest, 'Peace, be still.' '^
There was no reply; a muscular rigidity
seemed to forbid to Emma the power of speech.
The wind forced the rattling torrents with fury
i^ainst the windows, which were illuminated at
snort intervals with an appalling glare, succeeded
by peals of thunder that responded with terrific
majesty to the wild roar of the tempest. '* Crod
18 powerful," said Phillis; ''these are his mighty
works. O, what love must that be which is
pqasl to such power as this! — ^and it must be
equal, for God is love, his name is love."

These words had their effect; Emma's appre-
hensions gradually subsided. "God is love,"
she repeated; "can I not trust in his disposal?
If my husband, — if my husband," she con-
tinued, firmly, "is in danger, there is an omnipo-
tent arm to uphold him."

STUDY. 41

** O yes," said Phillis, with Animation; '* God
is a present help, and though the mountains be
carried into the midst of the sea, yet wi]l we not
fear."

Emma felt at that moment the sustaining
power of faith to a degree never before experi-
enced. She cast herself upon God, and was sup-
ported. Her tranquillity was restored, and she
found it no longer a painful effort to remain quiets
When the stwrm had ceased, she rejoiced that
she had not allowed her own alarm to disturb her
grandfather;* especially when summoned to his
bed-side, at an early hour, to administer the res-
toratives which his disease frequently demanded.
Though the palpitation and fainting continued
longer than usual, Mrs. Spencer felt no uncommon
anxiety ; for she had been accustomed for several
years to minister to her grandfather's relief in
ihese paroxysms, which generally passed off
without leaving any increase of the feebleness
which was now his habitu&d state. As he took
his breakfast in his own room, Emma lefl him
as usual to join her aunt. She would gladly
have stayed behind. For, as is often the case
with the ill-tempered, Mrs. Davenport was com-
monly out of humor in the morning; her face
seemed at that time more strongly marked with a
stern expression; and her remarks too often cor-
responded with that unpleasant cast of counte-
nance, to make her a desirable companion to one
still deeply agitated between hope and fear. To
her inquiries after the health of her aunt, she

was roughly answered, that it was not to be ex-

4#

42 STUDY.

«

pected she could tie well after such a night ;-^
if wives could sleep whea their husbands were
Ib danger, it was not in her power to do so ; she
had not been in bed since two o'clock; — but she
believed there were people in the world entirely
destitute of feeling.

Emma strove to keep back the tears that were
coming to her eyes. She poured the milk into
Ellen's cup, — and even 'in that little act had
time to recollect the affection Mrs. Davenport
bore her husband, and readily pardoned an in-
sinuation which she knew was but the efferves-
cence of a temper made more irritable by her
present anxiety. And she tried by kind atten-
tions to show that it was forgiven. ' But Mrs.
Davenport would not be pleased, till the door-
bell rang, and a letter from Mr, Spencer was
handed to -his trembling wife. VNo disaster
from the boisterous weather of last night — I am*
well — a fair wind — adieu, my beloved, *' — were
the brief, but satisfactory contents. Perhaps the
pleasure of having controlled the feelings is never
more sensibly felt, than when it is immediately
followed by a great outward blessing. Emma
did not now regret that she had resisted her in-
clination to escape from the unpleasant society
of her aunt, to that apartment where anger never
came, and where she was always received with
smiles of love and fond approval. Her impa-
tience was now increased by the pleasant com-
munication she had to make to her grandfather;
— but she remained to listen to Mrs. Davenport,
on whom the assurance of her nephew's safety

STUDY. 43

had wrought a wonderful change of humor, being
now as foolishly loquacious as she hud been be-
fore taciturn and morose. At length, all claims
being satisfied, Emma hastened to her grand-
father, and was surprised to find him looking very
pale and languid. But he Was still cheerful and
disposed to converse; and when Mrs. Spencer
remarked that she was surprised at the buoyancy
of her mind on that day — the day after her hus-
band's departure, — when she had feared a state
of extreme despondency, "It is thus, py dear,"
said the Judge, "that God teaches us to depend
on hkn for happiness. He can give it to us by
means that our weak foresight would have pro-
nounced not only inadequate, but entirely opposed
to such a result. When the storm was approach-
ing last night, you could not have anticipated
that it was to be the instrument by which you
were to be made happy at this moment of your
privation. The knowledge of his safety diffuses
through your heart a grateful joy, which even the
presence of your husband on ordinary occasions
could not impart. Let this event instruct you to
repose on God, — to take no anxious thought, —
but leave all with perfect confidence to his guid-
ance."

The few last words were spoken in a faltering
tone, and the returning symptoms of his disease
soon prevented utterance. This quick recur-
rence of the illness awakened alarm, and a
physician was instantly called. But before he
arrived, the spirit had gone tp realize those
scenes on which its warmest affections and

I

44 STUDY.

brightest hopes had long been placed. Deep
was the gri^f with which Emma gazed on the
dear remains of her only parent; but the heaven-
like expression his departing soul hhd left upon
the features, seemed still exhorting her to look
beyond the present scene. And when his vene-
rated countenance could no longer admonish, his
precepts and example still influenced the charac-
ter of her sorrow. Her tears were not those of
unmingled wo, but of sweet remembrance and
joyful hope. There were moments when she
could rejoice, even amidst her own loneliness,
that her indulgent parent had gone to mingle
with kindred spirits; when she felt there was a
higher happiness in the contemplation of his
present 'blessedness, than she had ever enjoyed
under the immediate shelter of his parental guar-
dianship.

As soon as the first emotions produced by this
event had subsided, it became Emma's care to
take measures that such a disposition of the little
remnant of her grandfather's property, which
had been reluctantly reserved through the for-
bearance of Mr. Spencer's creditors, should be
made, as would be agreeable to his wishes, and
her own sense of justice. She wrote, therefore,
to a gentleman who had been one of the assignees,
requesting him to make such a disposal of it as,
from his knowledge of the case, he deemed most
fit. To this communication she received a prompt
reply, stating, that the creditors had no farther
demand, that the business had been settled, and
that she was Entitled to all of which Judge

8TU]>T. 45

Thurston had died possessed. To this, Mrs.
Spencer answered, that it was a grant made in
consideration of the character, age, and infirmi-
ties of her grandfather, and utterly renounced
any claim to it. She immediately sought the
means of her own livelihood; for, until assured
that her husband was established in business,
she would not encroach on the little sum, which
he had been able to leave her. Needlework
being a favorite occupation, she employed herself
at once in making dresses for children; design-
ing to place them for sale at a shop, which in her
better days she had frequented for the purpose
of buying similar garments.

"1 thought," said Mrs. Spencer, as she was
preparing to go out to dispose of the first little
parcel she had accomplished,, ''I thought that I
had fortified my mind for this errand; but I feel
a strange repugnance to it this morning. Yet
why should I be mortified by the use of this in-
nocent means to supply niy wants .^ "

There were tears in Philiis's eyes, as she stood
at the fire warming Mrs. Spencer's cloak; but
concealing this sign of her sympathy, ''It al-
ways seemed strange to me," said she, '* that any
one should be ashamed of being poor. When
our Lord, who could have commanded the moun-
tains to give up their gold, and the rivers to roll
it out at his feet, yet chose poverty, it wobld
seem as if wo should rather shun earthly treasure,
than be ashamed of not possessing it."

A stranger might have been surprised at a
sentiment so elevated and jusf, from one in

».

46 STUDY.

Phillis's situation. But to Mrs. Spencer it was
no novelty^ She had long considered her as one
of the most striking illustrations of the power of
religion to enlarge the intellect. She always
iistenecl with attention wlien the timidity of Phil-
lis was so far overcome by the force of her lively
interest in the concerns of the family whom she
served, as to induce her to speak in the presence
of her superiors., **Your remark is correct,"
said Mrs. Spencer; '* it is indeed strange that we
should be ashamed of a state which Jesus volun-
tarily assumed and recommended as the safest
and the best, while we are delighted and made
proud by the wealth which he pronounced injuri-
ous. Jesus would not have required the rich
young man to part with his possessions, had they
conferred on him any real dignity; he, whom it
is expressly said our Lord lovejd, was to be ex-
alted by poverty."

These and similar 'reflections supported Emma
through her walk; but, as she approached the
shop, she observed a coach at the door that was
instantly recognised as Mrs. Montague's, from
which she and several other ladies were alighting.
An object often seen at Woodland under cir-
cumstances so different,, introduced a crowd of
thoughts such as she had confidently hoped
would never again disturb iier peace. She could
not conceal from herself, that false shame mingled
with the emotion thus unexpectedly awakened.
Passing the shop, she turned down another street,
and taking a wide circuit, returned to the same
point; buttheVoach jvas still at the door. A

STUDY. 47

second time the experiment was tried, and proved
equally unsuccess^il. Hesitating, but not able
tosummoh resolution to enter the shop, Emma
turned with the intention of going home. "Poor
Phillis," thought she, as this resolution was
formed, "how disappointed she will b'e; — when
she has watched with so much interest the pro-
gress of my work, and is now looking out for
me with such solicitude, — with a bright fire, I
dare say," thought Emma, as she wrapped her
cloak still closer to defend herself against the
keen ai)r of a December noon. — ** And why am I
going to disappoint my poor faithful friend? Be-
cause I have not courage to meet Mrs. Montague
aild her gay party in this my fallen condition.
And yet I am not fallen. Whatever Emma
Spencer was, she is now; — the want or posses-
sion of money does not aflect my character. In-
dustry is not ignoble; nor would Mrs. Mon-
tague hesitate to sell the fruits of hers, if the
demands of charity should call her powers into
exercise. What it is not debasing to do for
others, it cannot be disgraceful to do for our-
selves. I will go and act with the same simplic-
ity as if Mrs. Montague were not present." She
immediately retraced her steps, and entered the
shop with a meek dignity, inspired by the re-
flections which had fortified her mind before she
left home, and which now recurred for its sup-
port.

She was instantly recognised by Mrs. Mon-
tague, who introduced her to the ladies by
whom she was surrounded, and entered into such

4B ATCDT.

& -oonverBation as made it more difficult for her to
.«pen her business to the milliner. For just re-
flections are apt to lose their hold on the mind
when we are in the society of those on whom we
know they have but a feeble influence ; and Emma
began to doubt the correctness of her conclusions,
to feel her own convictions giving way, and
wealth rising in her estimation, when she saw
the importance attached to the veriest trifle of
external ornament. ''Fray, Mrs. Spencer, give
me your taste in the choice of these Collars; this
is the neatest, the other has a bnoader pattern; I
have been hesitating this half hour.'*

'' I hope, my dear Mrs. Montague," said a very
pleasant-looking elderly lady, ''that your friend's
taste will decide you ; for I fear we shall be at
home at a late dinner hour; it is six miles I think

"Five and^ a half to your daughter's resi-
dence," said Mrs. Montague; "I think I am
right, — it is five and a half to Woodland, is it
not, Mrs. Spenc^?"

" Exactly," y^aa the hardly articulate reply.

The ladies paid their bills and were hurrying
on their gloves, when one of them recollected
having omitted the principal purchase intended.
"Have you any children's frocks?" she inquired.
The milliner regretted being entirely out. — "I
have a few that I wish to dispose of," said Emma,
undoing her little packet, and oflering them to
the shopkeeper The ladies looked at each other
with some surprise, but united in admiring the
neatness and beauty of the firocks; while the

STUDY. 49

milliner engaged to take as many as Mrs. Spen-
cer could supply. WitK a cheerful spirit and
quick pace she hurried home, ^nd joined with
real lightness of heart in the merriiuent of her
little playful Ellen, whom she found deeply en-
gaged with her dolls, receiving them as ceremo-
nious company, and scolding puss for infringing
on the rules of etiquette.

Though occupied with her needle, Emma's
thoughts were ti liherty to recall the images and
dwell upon the scenes most dear to her recollec-
tion. Hours were every day consumed in re-
tracing the past ; sometimes wandering with her
husband through the walks at Woodland, or
renewing with him past conversations; till, wea-
ried with the repetition of these reminiscences,
she sought variety through the aid of imagina-
tion, and delighted herself with anticipations.
Her husband's return, their future mode of life,
pursuits, pleasures, and plans, spread out in end-
less, untiring perspective, and afforded materials
for the most absorbing reveries. Emma some-
times felt that this was wrong, that it was a waste
of mental power, that she was giving to weak
indulgence that ability which shoald be exerted
for some nobler purpose. She would th«n en-
deavor to resist the intrusion of these unprofita-
ble thoughtSj and would apply herself to the in-
struction of Ellen, or make more strenuous efforts
to render herself an entertaining companion to
Mrs. Davenport. But the pleasures of imagi-
nation are peculiarly seductive in retirement, or
in the Bociety of those whose tastes and habits

6

60 , 8TUDy.

are uncongenial to ^ir own^ Month after month
passed away, witlbuC'L.anjr diminution of the
strength of the temptation;-. Her mind turned
as if instinctively to this useless musing, when-
ever it was at leisure from a pressing duty.

It was from one of these dreams of fl^ncy, which
had now become habitual, that Emma was called
one morning by Phillis, who announced two la-
dies, one of whom was instantly recognised as
the agreeable-looking elderly lady, >yhom Emma
had met at the shop some months before with Mrs.
Montague. She introduced her daughter, Mrs.
Sargent, now the owner of Woodland, who had
come to request Mrs. Spencer to take charge of
the education pf her four daughters, children from
five to fifteen jjrcars of age, during her expected
absence in Europe. The terms would be liberal,
Mrs. Sargent said, and the labor not severe.
Emma replied, that she was entirely unqualified
for such an undertaking; that she had been marri-
ed Very young, and had wholly neglected to retain
an acquaintance with the branches of knowledge
necessary to be taught. Mrs. Sargent, however,
would not admit this plea, as six months were to
elapse before she should leave the country, and
that time might be employed in the necessary
preparation.

Emma required a few days for deliberation,
during which she came to the determination to
conquer her strong disinclination to the fiCce of
a teacher, and to the preparatory study. It cost
.a great effort ; but her sense of duty triumphed^
and she resolved that her best powers should be

exerted. »The light an<f ' fttpjjitfg^employment of
the needle was laid aside, ikA *in placeof this,
her favorite occupation, a laborious course of
study was Entered upon,*— laborious to Emma,
who from 6)iildhood had been strongly disinclined
to mental application. Her superficial knowledge
of the French and Italian languages was to be
perfected. Arithmetic and geometry, which had
been disliked and neglected at school, must now
be clearly comprehended. She felt herself, in
short, obliged to begin ai\ elementary course,
•and go on gradually, like a child, in order to
attain sufficient 'accuracy for a teacher. To her
imaginative mind, this was severe drudgery.
But Emma applied herself witb Jb zpal propor-
tioned to the demand upon her, cnriding the day
into parts, which were scrupulously devoted to
dififerent branches of study. Yet so trifling was
the daily clearing-up of difficulties, compared with
the entangled maze before her, that she suffered
from perpetual discouragement; and her bewil-
dered faculties were little fitted at the close of
one lesson for the OUncentration of their energy
upon a new subject. Her dreams partook of the
labor of the day, and fantastically mingled the sub-
jects of her study with her early domestic pleas-
ures; sometimes she was struggling to accomplish
her toilette, but unable to do it for the want of
the right verb;— then striving to speak to a friend,
whose well-known features suddenly spread out
into maps and uncouth diagrams. Then she was
awakened long before the earliest dawn to the
reality of unretnitting study. This became every

daj more irksome ftom the unfavorable effect of
close application- upon her nerves. It produced
a constant anxiety, a weight upon her spirits, a
feelins as if something was neglected that ought
to be done; sometimes attended with a feeling of
hurry, which distracted her thoughts in the midst
of processes that required undivided attention.

** I fear I must give up this project," said
Emma, as Phillis was closing the shutters to ex-
clude the light from her eyes, inflamed by a vio-
lent headache.

**You must, certainly," replied Phillis, witbp
anxious tenderness, '' if your health fails in this
way. I wish you could be persuaded to do less."

'* You do niJLknow any thing about it, Phillis,"
was the impatient reply; '* you cannot understand
what I have before me which must be accom-
plished."

Phillis made no answer, but smoothed the pil-
low, put the cologne-bottle within reach, dropped
the bed-curtain, and closed the door with a hand
so gentle that it could hardly be perceived by the
most attentive listener. ^

It did not serve to relieve the aching head,
that Phillis's solicitude had received so ungrate-
ful a return. But Emma endeavored to justify
herself by the consideration, that if the words
had been utfered in a fretful tone, they were
nevertheless strictly true. — ** But are they true?"
was the inquiry of her inner self. ''Am I called
upon to grasp at once this variety of knowledge ?
Have I not been governed by an impatient spirit?
Have I daily looked to my Heavenly Father with

STUDY. OS

humility and- trust for his aid to help me to per-
ceive and to retain the knowledge I am seeking?
We have a promise that strength shall be impart-
ed to meet the emergency of every day. But have
I sought that strength, and been satisfied with
the ability that has been dealt out to me ? And
having made a small advance; have I quietly re-
posed on God for further assistance ? O no, this
has not been done. It is my distrust and impa-
tience, and not the employment, which has pro-
duced this despondency and irresolution. I will
no longer depend upon unassisted efforts. I will
call on Him who teaches the insect to perform its
slow, but curious, complicated labors. He will
guide and strengthen my mind for the work to
which he has called it. Or, if it is his will that
my endeavors shall be frustrated, |ie will show
me, if not now, at some future time, that it is best
it should be so; since, however I may have erred
in the manner, it was certainly with a view to
ol^ain the divine approbation, that I have sought
this mental improvement." — ^With these reflec-
tions Emma fell asleep.

When she awoke, she found a letter from her
husband, which Phillis had soflly laid upon her
pillow. Mr. Spencer had now been absent a year
and a half His business had proved more lucra-
tive than he had expected. Another year would,
he hoped, enable him to make up every deflciency
in the payment of his creditors. His health was
good, and his heart overflowing with love to his
family. This letter was very animating. But the
salutary influence of Emma's good resolutions was

5*

64 ITUDT.

more permanent than the effect of any outward
blessings could be. Her studies, pursued with a
proper disposition, lost their irritating tendency,
and gradually engaged and interested her mind.
New susceptibilities were awakened, and unex-
pectedly to herself she began to enjoy the order
of grammatical construction, and the truth of
arithmetical demonstration. New beauties were
continually unfolding, which highly rewarded her
for all the restraints she had imposed upon her-*
self. She soon found the vast superiority of these
intellectual pleasures over the desultory indul-
gences of an undisciplined imagination.

The time now approached that Emma was to re-
ceive Mrs. Sargent's daughters as her pupils; but
the sudden, severe illness of her little girl, render-
ed it impracticable for her to assume the charge.

The disappointment was mutually felt; fbr, on
the eve of her departure for Europe, the lady
was obliged to make a new arrangement for her
family. Emma would have more regretted this
necessity when Ellen's immediate danger was
passed, had the recovery Jieen less imperfect;
but a lingering disease was lef\ behind, that re-
quired the constant, watchfulness of a mother's^
care. The plump, blooming face was become
pale and haggard; and the large blue eyes told,
with a touching truth of expression, every varia-
tion in the delicate feelings of the little invalid.

Mrs. Spencer would have found it difficult to
guard against the waywardness induced by the
excessive indulgence the child now received, bad
not her previous education in some degree fitted
her to bear it. The most trifling fault was fol-

STUDY. 66

lowed by penitence. " Was I very naughty?"
became the frequent inquiry.

** No, my dear, not very naughty," w^ the
reply one morning, when it was asked with pe-
culiar anxiety.

''But perhaps you have forgotten about the
flower — I tore it all to pieces, because I wanted
the ottar — when Phillis said the pink was a little
smelling-bottle, — it made me so angry! — I'm
sorry now, — let me kiss you, mamma. My rabbit
don't do so, does he, mamma .^ When I give him
bread, he champs it away, and looks so happy;
though Fido loves sugarplums — yes, you rogue,
you know you love them. Fido! Fido! now
see him spring! — How far he can jump! — I
could jump so once, could't I, mamma? but O,
my ancles ache so now; — do let me lie on the
bed, — and then tell me a story. But don't tell
me any thing about flowers."

** Why not? I thought you were ijever tired
of hearing about those beautiful things."

*' Some other time, but not now; it will make
me think of the pink, my poor pink; I wish I had
not pulled it to pieces, —r Tell me some more about
the Chinese juggler, and what he had in his box."

*' Amongst many other curiou&i things," began
Mrs. Spencer, ** was ar mouse." ..

"Was it a white or a gray one?" inquired
Ellen.

** That I do not know; but whatever was his
color, he is a very accomplished little gentleman, '
and danced to.the admiration of all beholders."

*' How I should have liked to see him," cried
Ellen, *' with his lo&g tail whiskioff about; — -
but perhaps he danced a minuet, -^ifi^ich do fom

66 fTUDT.

-think it was, mamma, a hornpipe or a minuet?"

*' The book did not mention; but it described
another feat that this mouse performed, stiil more
surprising than the dance. His master would
suspend on a hook " ** What is the mean-
ing of suspend?" interrupted Ellen.

** Here is your dictionary," said her mother,
reaching the book.

** I cannot wait to find the word; please tell
me the meaning yourself — or no matter — I do
not care about knowing — do go on — what did
the juggler do next?"

** When you have found the word, I will go on."

" It will make my head ache," urged Ellen.

" O no, looking for one word will not make you
sick."

** But I don't love to seek out words," persist-
ed Ellen. "

Her mother remained silent, looking quietly
firm. Ellen saw that to tease would be of no
avail, and suddenly turning herself over to the
light, read aloud: '' Suspend, to hang, to delay,
to put off, to debar, to make to stop for a time."

"Here," said Mrs. Spencer, "are one, two,
three, four, five, meanings o{ suspend; and which
of them do you think I meant to use?"

" Let me think; — the juggler used to suspend
on a hook, — hang — yes, that is the word —
hang on a hook. O, I long so to know what he
used to hang on a hook."

"It was an iron chain of round rings," said
Mrs. Spencer, " more than a yard long, up which
he had taught the mouse to run, passing in through
one ring of the chain and out at another, not mis-
sing one till he had gained the top."

•TITDT. 67

'*Othe brisk little fellow!" cried Ellen, half
rising and resting on her elbow; — '^ but how did
he get down?"

'* Exactly in the same way that he ascended."

** What, in at one ring and out at another? —
how I should have liked to see him, just when
he had reached the bottom, pricking up his ears,
and looking round with his twinkling black eyes.
— I don't feel tired now, mamma; do let me go
tell Phillifl about this funny little fellow."

There was a pause in Phillis's scrubbing, while
she listened very attentively to the minutest par-
ticular; but the narrator was not quite satisfied
with the degree of admiration expressed. —
" Should . not you like to see such a wonderful
mouse?" Philiis thought not.

** Not want to see it I why?"

" I should be thinking," replied Philiis, ^* how
much the poor little tumbler had suffered while
his master was teaching him to go through his
tridcs."

'* I never thought of that. -^ But," after a few
minutes' silence Ellen added, '' when my head
aches, you say it will make me a better girl if I
am patient; and I am sure mousy was very pa-
tient to run through all the rings, — for he did
not miss one; — do you remember that, Philiis?"

"Hark," said Philiis, holding up her finger;
** do you not hear the clock ticking? — there it
has been through many a long day, tick, tick,
ticking. — What ought we to say of the clock?
that it goes constantly, or that it is very patient?"

"A patient clock!" repeated Ellen, laughing;

68 8TUDT.

"I neyer heard of such a thing as a patient
clock; it would be very silly to call it so."

*' Not much more silly than a patient mouse.
He did not go through the rings because he loved
his master, or thought it was right to do it pleas-
antly and quietly; he did not know right from
wrong; but he went because he had been forced
to go so many times, that at last, like a machine,
he went without his master's help. But if I were
to say that Ellen was patient, I should mean
something very different."

" What should you, mean then?" inquired El-
len, eagerly.

" That there was a voice in Ellen's mind which
said, Vl am sick to-day, I cannot read, I cannot
play with my dolls, I can do nothing but lie still
on mamma's bed, or sit in Phillis's lap; but I will
not cry, I will not look sad, for my Heavenly
Father knows how many pleasant things he has
given me; and will, he not be displeased, if I
forget them all and think only of my pain?
I will thank him for giving me a mother and
kind friends, a house to shelter me, and the
bright sun, and the scented flowers; and then I
shall smile and feel happy.' "

** When my head aches, Phillis, shall I hear
this voice if I listen?"

** Yes, .my dear; and though it is low, it is so
very sweet, that while you are listening, you will
forget your pain."

*' And then shall I be patient?"

''You will be patient when you have learned
to bear pain and other disagreeable things without

THE farmer's familt. 59

fretting, and pouting, and troubling your mamma.
— But you must remember, that the mouse went
through every ring, he did not omit one. So you
must listen to that voice I told you of, whenever
you are sick, or in any other way displeased.''

Poor Ellen had frequent occasion to prove the
sincerity of her desire to become what Phillis had
recommended. Medical aid was ineffectual in re*
storing her lost vigor, and the physician prescrib-
ed country air as the only remaining' remedy.

Mrs. Davenport, scarcely less solicitous for the
health of the child than the mother, proposed to
Mrs. Spencer, that they should put in execution
a plan, which she had long ago formed, of visiting
her native place. Emma readily acceded to thl
proposal, jrlrs. Davenport wrote immediately to
one of her old neighbors, and soon received an
answer from Mrs. Ellenwood, of Chestnut Hills,
favorable to their wishes. She would be pleased
to accommodate them as boarders, and fixed the
early part of the approaching autumn for their
reception.

Chapter V.

THE FARMER'S FAMILY.

It was a remarkably fine morning in Septem*
her, when Miss Huldah Patterson, or Aunt Hul-
dah, as she was usually called to distinguish her
from several others of the same name, locked
her cottage door, and, putting the key into her

60 THE farmer's family.

capacious pocket, stepped briskly forward through
the broad, lonely road which led to Mr. Hugh
Ellenwood's. Her step was very lively for one
of her age and size, she being a portly woman of
about sixty. The trees and grass were covered
with dew, which the sun lighted up into trembling
brilliancy; but Aunt Huldah was too intent on
reaching the place of her destination to notice
this or any other beauty, and she destroyed with-
out a thought of regret the bright show beneath
her feet. The quick action of her body did not
admit of close reflection; but a general feeling
of gratitude for health, activity of limbs, and a
clear sunshine, gave to her cheerful face some-
thing more than its ordinary good-humor.

She was just ascending one of the abrupt ac-
clivities, very common in the roads of New-
Hampshire, when Mr. Ellenwood's horse and
wagon appeared on the top of it, and his son
Robert, a boy of eleven years, as the driver,
''You are a good child to come for me," said
Aunt Huldah, as she with some difficulty mounted
into the wagon; '* but how happens it that Scam-
per is not away this morning? I thought your
father used him upon the county road."

Robert looked round with that expression of
important amazement, which he really felt at
knowing something of which a person so much
older than himself was ignorant; and with a volu-
bility that seemed even to animate Scamper, he
poured forth a flood of intelligence. The sum
and substance of which was, that the new coantr
road was finished, and that consequently the mail-

THB FARMX&'t FASIILT. 61

stage would in future pass directlj by his father's
house, and was expected, for the first time, that
yerj afternoon. He was entering upon a minute
description of the vehicle as he had received it
4rom his father, when Aunt Huldah interrupted
him bj a request that he would hold in the reins
a little. "It is not safe, my ^ar, to race down
a hill in this way, when there is a bridge at the
bottom of it."

** I would hold Scamper in if I could," replied
Robert, straining himself back, ahd tightening
the reins with his whole force; ''but don't be
afraid, he knows better than any of us how to
manage; he'll come fair and softly upon the old
bridge, I'll dare be bound." Scamper fully justi-
fied the confidence of his friend, and it was won-
derful to notice with what self-command he re-
strained his eager spirits, as he approached the
bottom of the hill. The noise of the saw, the
dash of the water over the heavy wheels of the
mill, the stream showing its swift motion through
the broken planks of the narrow, unpalisaded
bridge, seemed instantaneously to give him power
over his excited muscles; and from rapid motion
he fell into a composed, careful step, treading over
the bridge with his head down, his whole body
giving the appearance of apprehensive caution.
But no sooner were his hind feet fairly off from
this wooden work of man, than he seemed with
fresh delight to testify his confidence in the se-
curity of nature's pathways, and sprang forward
oyer the ground like an Arabian courser, soon

6

62 THE farmer's family.

1

bringing the wagon safely to his own bam door,
— - to the *inexpressibie relief of Aunt Huldah.

Mr. Hugh Elienwood was a native of New
Hampshire, and cultivated the farm which his
ancestors had cleared from the wood and rock»
with which the land was greatly encumbered.
The mansion*haise, erected three generations
back, had receiy|a various additions to accommo-
date the family, which, at some periods, had been
very large. Parts had been added with a more
steady eye to convenience than taste ; all rules of
architecture had been outraged, except, indeed,
unity. Accommodation, and the means used to
effect it, were happily in perfect harmony. The
emergencies which had induced the addition of
some of the apartments, were now only remem-
bered by the old; and it was striking to recollect
how many of those who had made these enlarge-
ments necessary, had found a home in another
world. The house now covered a pretty wide
extent of ground, having seven rooms on a floor,
some very large, others small, and most of them
well furnished with dressers or closets. The
floors, except one, having never been carpeted
nor painted, were much worn by frequent scour-
ing. The ^re-places were afler the ancient con-
struction, broad and deep ; the hearths were
formed of large fragments of granite, which, origi-
nally unhewn, had become smooth by long wear.
The windows were high and narrow, and the fur-
niture plain, clumsy, and oldfashioned, with the
exception of a few modern articles in the best
parlor, a carpet of home manufacture, a bureau.

THE FARJMSR's FAMILY. . 63

and a large sampler containing the names of all
the children, together with an hour-glass, hand-
somely stitched, a scythe, and several other em-
blems, and some appropriate lines on the short-
ness of life, "by A. Ellenwood." By its side
hung a piece of embroidery representing Liberty,
with her usual insignia, accompanied by some
distinguished names, and the following lines un-
derneath in large black letters:

" Wrought by R. EUenwood. An. Dom. 18 —
at Academy.

" Sons of Heroes ! can ye e'er

Cease to cherish and revere

Names and deeds, which fame has ne'er

Equalled on its pag^e?
No ; while life a pulse shall throw,
Karth revolve, or ocean flow, ^
Gratitude unqupnched sh^U glow,

Brighteninnr on with age."

Such was the venerable and patriotic dwelling
which accommodated, at the-- present time, the
farmer's family, consisting of Mr. EUenwood, his
wife, and their eight children. Mr. EUenwood 's
sister and mother were also inmates, the latter
of whom was peculiarly dear to all. Her move-
ments was watched with tender reverence, her
wishes were laws, and her presence was welcome
as sunshine to every heart. Such was the family.
With the occasional addition of visiters and work-
people, it was often swelled to eighteen or twen-
ty, over which Mrs. EUenwood, or Mrs. Hughy,
as she was commonly called to distinguish her
from her mother, presided with quiet regularity^

M TBB VABMER's family.

glidings fVom day to day through the lahyrinth of
care and work involved in such an establishment,
with an ease that was surprising to those of more
nervous temperament and bustling habits. Aunt
Huldah had now come, as she had done every
autumn for many years, to weave into cloth, for
domestic use, the wool and flax, which had
been spun in the course of the year by the di^
ferent members of the family. Breakfast had
long been over, but Anna EUenwood, a kind girl,
though a little inclined to Vanity, was prompt to
cook a fresh one, and had it ready nearly as soon
as Aunt Huldah had smoothed down the sleeves
of her chocolate-colored linsey-woolsey gown,
put on her clean checked apron, and adjusted the
black silk cap that always adorned her head.

The EUenwood mansion stood on high ground,
from which, on the right, the descent was rather
sudden into a wide extent of low, level land.
The broad meadows on each side the, road form-
ed a most agreesfble landscape ; the imagina-
tion of a painter could hardly have selected from
all nature, and combined into a single view, a
more beautiful picture. They were ornamented
with trees, either solitary or in groups; — the elm,
courting observation, conspicuous and al6ne, with
its long, pendulous branches and graceful outline,
— evergreens clustering together, and surround-
ed with shrubbery, of colors gaily contrasting or
soflly harmonizing; — while the long, silky grass,
as if to compensate to this inland country K»r ittf
distance from the sea, yielding to every breeze,
imitated *the ceaseless roll of the ocean, and re-

TH£ farmer's jtamilt. 66

fleeted the beams of the sun with a knild lustre
from its glossy waves ; — only rivalled by the
sparkling waters of a brook, which, in its course
through the green expanse, exhibited a capriee
resulting in inimitable beauty, — now pressing,
forward in a straight lin«, then bending gently
away, traversing again and again with slight
variations its own pathway, darting off and re-
turning by circuitous routes to the islands it had
formed; till at last, carelessly meandering away
to its own sweet music, it swept along the out-
skirt of .the meadows, and formed a border to
the forest which lay in the back-ground. The
'^trees on this front of the forest, were of many
distinct species, mingling their different forms
and various ^ tints ; and the solemn majesty of
some, the easy gracefulness of others, the regular
gradation from the tallest which nature raises, to
.the lowest underwood, ending at last in the bright
silver edge, embellished with golden and purple
flowers, — all blending into one compact, beauti-
ful whole, looked to the eye of fancy like an
embroidered curtain.

Through these fair scenes passed the public
road, which was seen in long distance from the
windows, except for a short space on the descend-
ing ground, which, as was before remarked, fell
rather suddenly from Mr. EUenwood's house.

The tall clock, itself somewhat of a# inno-
vation, loudly proclaimed to Robert's impatient
ears, that the longed-for hour had arrived. With
eager eyes he watched the extremest point of
vbion till his patience was almost exhaustedy

6*

66 THS F^&MBR's FAMlUt. ^

when he suddenly exclaimed, '"T is comilig, 't is

coming!?' The mail-coach, which had hitherto

. gone seven or eight miles west of Chestnut Hills,

' was t6 pass by the new road lately opened through
* , this part of the country. Robert was the youngest
of the family, and had never seen a stage-coach, »—
the extreme parts of the six miles square of his
native parish being the utmost bounds of his pere-
grinations. It is not, therefore, surprising, that
he should hail with acclamations this inspiriting
novelty, as it advanced rapidly along the plain,
glittering in the full blaze of the sun. The
flourish of the long whip was all that was neces-
sary to animate the four eager horses, as tossing^
their heads they pressed on with a motion of the
feet as simultaneous as if the single will of the
driver moved the whole. ** I wonder what sort
of figure Scamper would make if he were put in
the place of that foremost ofF-horse," said Rob-
ert, and he laughed very heartily at the bare idea

% of his awkward embarrassment.

" I dare be bound," said Aunt Huldah, with a
. sigh, '' that great thing is carrying people enough

to L Falls. Ah well, these factories will be

the undoing of the country." This was Aunt
Huldah 's weak side; and as all knew that she
had lost most of her employment as a weaver,
since the establishment of the cotton and 'woollen
factories in the neighborhood, she received no
contradictory reply. The elder Mrs. Ellenwood
interrupted the silence that ensued, by remark-
ing on the difference between our own and the
patriarchal state. The aged Deborah had n«

H.

Tiffe farmer's family. 67

such accommodation to convey her to Bethel|
i^he observed, nor the beloved Rachel, when she
journejed from thence to Ephrath ; there were no
such means of communication by letters between
Canaan and Egypt, when Jacob mourned s6
many years for his beloved Joseph. '* And yet,"
continued she, '^ I am afraid we do not improve
these advantages as we ought ; instead of awak-
ening a deeper gratitude to God, I am afraid they
remove us from him ; these contrivances of man,
these human inventions, come between us and
Him. Where now is the gratitude that animated
Jacob, when he took his whole household, and
1$»nt up to Bethel to make an altar to the Lord?
-Where now the undoubting faith, which led
Joshua round and round the city with his trum-
pets and the ark of the Lord? Where the qui^
and confiding temper, which, in the very moment
of awakened hope, led Naomi to say, ' Sit still,
my daughter, until thou know how the matter will
fair?"

'* But," said one of her grandaughters, '' yon
are not sorry for these unproveitaents?"

" No, not for the improvements, my dear, but
for the spirit which I fear will grow up with them;
a spirit of self-reliance, an earthly spirit, looking
only to this low world for aid, for support; which
raises not its eyes to see the ladder Jacob saw,
nor listens to the voice of Him who haH glv^fi «ta
this great land over which we are spreading
abroad * to the west, and to the east, and to the
north, and to the south.' "

Here Robert interrttpted any fkrthef feitttrki.

68 THIS farmer's FAMIt.r.

He could no longer suppress his noisy animation,
as the horses, ascending with slow pace over the
brow of the hill, brought the great coach into
more immediate view. . A yard or two in advance
were several young men, who, to relieve the
horses, had alighted at the bottQpi of the hill,
and, with their nats off, and their coats hanging
over their arms, were striding on through the
heat and dust of a very warm aflernoon. One
of these, evidently a sailor, as soon as he noticed
the gazers, became so antic in his gestures and
merry in his song, that Robert was completely
engrossed, and did not notice that the coachman
was reining in his horses, till he stopped thein
directly in front of the house, sprang down
from his lofly seat, and opened the door of the
vehicle, from which Mrs. Davenport and her
family alighted. They were met at the door
with a cordial welcome by all the female part of
the family except Anna; who, by a back way,
made her escape to her own room, to put on her
new calico gown. No one else had thought of
dress, amidst the intere^ of the first interview
with their new inmates. Yet Anna \iras not quite
tranquil. Her hands trembled so, that it was
with great difficulty she could pull out with the
little brass rings, from the chest of drawers, the
cumbrous receptacle of her treasures. It was
unlu<9{:y for her that she succeeded, for, in her
hurry, she broke two teeth from her new comb,
the first real tortoise-shell she ever possessed.
Regret now added to her agitation, and she felt,
AS we sometimes do in a dream, an utter inca*

THB FARMERS^ FAMILY. 69

pacity to find and put on her clothes. It is
doubtful when she, would have been ready, had
not her older sister Rebecca come to her relief.
Perceiving the *' flurry" that Anna was in, she
was too good-i>atured to express her surprise at
finding her sister thus engaged, when it seemed
most natural that she should be thinking only of
those who had just arrived. But Rebecca was
not an adept in the philosophy of the human
mind; she did not know that when vanity has
once obtained an entrance, it has a strong ten-
dency to Coexistence with every state of feeling.

Mr. Hugh Ellenwood's farm was large, and,
yielding plentifully, gave him full liberty to con-
tinue the hospitable habits in which he had been
eduOated. The situation being inland, he could
not easily dispose of his surplus produce for
money, and consequently could not command
many foreign delicacies; but he lived contented-
ly, and was happy to impart to others the rough
plenty with which his family was always well
supplied. It was a remark of the elder Mrs.
Ellenwood, which her daughter-in-law never for-
got, that if they had butter and milk, and meal
to knead into cakes, and could take a calf tender
and good from the herd, — they ought to feel that
they had enough for any who might come, since
angels had condesce/ided to eat of such food
beneath a tree at Abraham^s tent-door. She
had frequent occasion for this lesson, to quiet the
perturbation which unexpected company some-
times produced by coming just before bakings
day, when the wheaten bread was old, or the

70 THE farmer's family.

pastry entirely exhausted; but it happened when
the ladies arrived, though a little sooner than w^
expected, that all things were in excellent prepar-
ation. The tea-table was spread at an early hour;
the cloth was delicately white; at every corner
was placed a patty, each different in kind, and
the area was filled with whatever rural luxuries
the house afforded.

Mr. EUenwood came in from the fields, having
been notified by a horn. He cordially welcomed
Mrs. Davenport, whom he remembered as the
admired object of his boyish gallantry, smilingly
apologized to Mrd. Spencer for his work-day coat,
and took his customary seat with his usual good
humor. Anna alone was stiff and awkward, froni
her excessive desire to appear to advantage in the
eyes of Mrs. Spencer, whose gentle, courteous
manners announced her at once to be amiable
and well-bred.

A scene so new to Emma engaged and de-
lighted her mind; and as the health of her little
girl was the great object, she joined in whatever
labors or Eunusements led the family abroad into
the open air.

There were few farms at Chestnut Hills, which
did not embrace within their boundaries a portion
of ground ornamented with the hop- vine. The
season for gathering the fiowers had arrived, and
served as a ready plea with the wives of the
neighboring farmers for every deficiency in the
rites of hospitality to Mrs. Spencer and her aunt.
Was an invitation less prompt than warm social
feeling demanded; was there a vacant spot on

•

THE farmer's family. 71

the tea-table caused by deficiency in amount or
variety of sweet dishes; were the evergreens less
neatly arranged in the parlor firerplace, or any
members of the family too much engrossed by
out-of-door occupation to make their appearance,
they were severally and again collectively ac-
counted for, with the summary but all-sufficient
apology, ** It is hop-picking time." Mr. Ellen-
wood had delayed this y^ar, to the very last safe
' moment for the flavor of his hops, the absorbing
business of curing them. Emma had been at
Chestnut Hills a few weeks, when she was in-
vited one morning to join in the lively scene.
The field was extensive, and the poles, set at
equal distances, were thickly entwined with the
green plant, .bearing its many fiowers of paler
verdure. The vines, faithfully hoed and hilled,
had been Carefully visited and restored to order
after every light gust .or summer storm, and, hav-
ing been trained to the summit of their tall sup-
ports, were allowed to float off in pendulous
luxuriance, changing the colors of their moist
jewellery on this bright morning, with every
motion given them by the wind, llie weather
was remarkably fine, the sun clear, the atmos-
phere pure, and every object was seen with pecu*
liar distinctness and under a brightened aspect.
The autumnal flowers seemed dyed with» a livelier
purple .and more glowing yellow, and were oflen
bent down by some solitary warbler, who, with
corresponding briskness of note, whistled a
sprightly air, starting from one station to another,
as if seeking the happiest point for viewing the

72 THB farmer's family.

landscape ; while a countless train of wild birds,
isecure in their daring height, were drawing out a
long, black, serpentine line beneath the beautifhl
blue arch that stretched oyer vale, and rivulet,
and wood, and hill.

But there was little leisure for enraptured gaz-
ing. The vines, two or three of which were
attached to each, pole, were cut at a suitable dis-
tance from the ground. Crotches were prepared
at a convenient height for the gatherers, and the
poles, with their flowing drapery, were laid hori-
zontally upon them. A bin of equal length was
pla^d underneath each, which accommodated
four persons on each side, and received the hops
as they were picked from the vines. As soon as
they were dried from the dew, every member of
the family engaged with cheerful assiduity in this
light labor.

Mrs. Spencer had chosen her stand near the
elder Mrs. EUenwood, to render any little service
she might need, and to mingle in the conversa-
tion she was always ready to promote. ^ Aunt
Huldah was for some time too much engaged in
initiating Philiis into the business, to attend to
any one else. Philiis had become a general
favorite, but to none more than Aunt Huldah,
who had pronounced her at once '' a well-appear-
ing person." For her part, she cared little, she
said, from what quarter of the globe the fore-
fathers of Philiis came ; the sun might, for all
she knew, shine down upon that country with
ten-fold heat to what it ever did on the sandiest
plain in New Hampshire ; but what of that? if

THE farmer's family. 73

t

it did dye the skin, it could not reach the heart
She cared little for the complexion, where she
saw such a patient spirit, such kind feelings, and
such humility. **Why, Phillis is as humble,"
said she, '^as if she were the greatest sinner in
the world; and, for my part, 1 know not where
to look for a better person." With this favorable
view of Phillis, it is not strange that she forgot
awhile, in talking to her, the theme on which she
generally preferred to speak, — old times. But
some association was suddenly awakened; and,,
turning to old Mrs. EUenwood, she asked if it
was not just thirty-six years since Phebe Burn-
side died. Being answered in the affirmative,
** I thought I was right," said she; ** it was the
twentieth day of October. I remember it ^ell.

Mr. Hughy went to D to ask Mr. Cynde to *'

preach at her funeral ; he gave a very able dis-
course, taking occasion from the'text, which was
from Ezekiel, — ' And lo, thou art unto them a^
a very lovely song.' "

"Yes, I recollect the subject," said Madam
EUenwood. "It was to show the folly of those
who admire the peace and loveliness of a religious
life, as it is manifested in others, but will not
submit themselves to the burden of those holy,
self-denying precepts, from which alone that
peace and beauty can spring. And he closed
the sermon with drawing the character of Phebe,
which left not many dry eyes or self-satisfied
hearts."

The name of Phebe Burnside was familiar to
every ear at Chestnut Hills, and had been so

7

74 THE farmer's FAMILTr

aflen pronounced by the old with respectful ten-
derness, that the young had learned to reverence
her memory without knowing the merit that was
attached to it. Mrs. Spencer, who was very sus-
ceptible to the charm of moral beauty, eagerly
inquired what were the pecuUar excellences of
one so fondly remembered. "Why, she was
altogether different from any one hereabout," re-
plied Aunt Huldah, who was always eloquent
when the minister of her early days, or any of
his family, were the subject. "She stayed with
us but a little while ; she seemed to come only like
a violet ip the spring, to gladden our eyes, and
make the air sweet, just to show us the wonder-
working hand of God. She died when she was
tweaty-two; she went home, I should have said,
for I anfsure she did not seem to belong here."

" She never was far from heaven," said Madam
Ellenwood. "The pure in heart see God; and
where he is beheld, there is joy and peace."

"Ah, so she always appeared," interrupted
Aunt Huldah, " as if she was enjoying her own
mind. I remember her face as well as if I had
seen it yesterday,. — the quiet look, and the pleas-
ant smile, and the modest cast of her eyes. Her
father, who was the first minister that settled
amongst us, was an extraordinary scholar, and
he gave Phebe a great store of learning. Yet
when she spoke, let it be to what poor body it
might, she would blush like a damask rose, and
seemed to set another always above herself Her
mother, who was a great lady, and had very
grand relations in foreign parts, died when she

THE farmer's family. ' 75

was a little girl. And good Mr. Bumside thought
it was his duty to let Phebe go to see them, as it
was her mother's desire ; and when she was six-
teen, he sent her away to England, his dear only
child. And there she stayed a year, and had a
coach to ride in, and servants to wait upon her,
and fine people to converse with, and was made
every thing of, and was set up for her beauty, and
her learning, and her graceful ways. Yet when
the time was out for her visit, and she came
back, she seemed just as when she went away,
— only more kind, if she could be, and more
gentle and loving to every body. Her heart was
with us; she seemed to look upon the people
here as the family of her father, and she the
servant of all; for she was never tirediof noing
us good. She wondered that her grana relations
should .think Chestnut Hills a dull place, —
though it was hot then as it is now ; it is stocked
like a bee-hive, compared with what it was then;
but she did not need company and change, as
people do now-a-days for their spirits."

** Phebe desired no change," interrupted
Madam Ellenwood, '' but that which was made
by the progress of her own soul. She found
variety evexy day in the i^ew scenes which spread
out before her, in her ever-approaching near-
ness to God. He opens, upon the eyes that are
turned to him, glory upon glory in ever new and
increasing brightness. Devotion gives wings to
the soul, and carries it where it partakes of such
fresh and abundant joys, as to have little need
from this world of what is called its pleasant di«

IT*

\ ■?*

76 * \.- * THB farmer's family.

versity. Yet this may be moderately sought, and
should be gratefully accepted, though, to him whQ
;i!^alks with God, it is like Jacob's pre^nt to his
son Joseph, — pleasant as coming from a parent,
but not necessary to supply any real want."

Mrs. Spencer listened to this last remark with
deepened interest ; for sh« wished to fortify her-
self against the ennui, which she feared might
steal upon her when the freshness of her present
situation was passed; and she made inquiries to
lead to a further development of this character.

** Yes," replied Aunt Huldah, " she was very
contented, asxd yet she did not sit. down and en*
joy her own ease. I don't know how it was, but
she seemed to have excellent things come to-
gethCT ii^er, that we don't commonly see joined
in one person."

**That is very true," said Madam Ellenwood;
*' but it was not becaiiise her original constitution
varied so much from her fellow beings, but only
that she opposed, with her whole strength, all
that was wrong, however it might fall in with
her natural bent, and as constantly performed
what she thought right, however foreign the
particular act might be to the disposition of her
mind. She was like a dove for gentleness; she
would not have pecked the roughest hand that
was held out against herself; yet, when she dis-
covered faults that were hurting the souls of even
those whom she most respected and desired to
please, she \vas all courage, firmness, and perse-
verance in reproving them. She felt that she

* » ^

THE FARH£R S FAMILf^^ 77

had a great deal to do in this world, •— that she
had, through her whole pilgrimage, a burden to
b^ar; yet she never seeme(J. weighed down under
the cross, never wearied,- sad, and discouraged
by her labors. Having resigned herself to the
direction of the spirit of God, she followed on
cheerfully in the footsteps of Jesus, brightened
and animated by the influence of her guide.
She was active, industrious, zealous in doing
good; but her activity was noiseless, and her in-
dustry more felt by what she accomplished, than
seen in any eagerness of pursuit. She did good
to others, because sEe loved them ; all, therefore,
was easy, natural, without pretence, as a thing of
course. The unfortunate loved her in returaj^as.
children do a parent; they confided in her judgp^
lAent, they trusted in her kindness. Nobody
thought, while she was here, that she was doing
so much; there was no boasting, no bustling
hurry, no impatience, no obstinate attempt to
bend others to her will; but modest, uniform,
and quiet, -^ her presence, like sunshine, was al-
ways agreeable, but, as with the sun, it w^ not
known till her absence, how much she had charm-
ed, and warmed, and comforted our hearts."

A beautiful picture of the benevolent, gentle,
devout Phebe Burnside, rose up to Emma's im-
agination; and she blessed the afflictions, which,
by leading her to turn her thoughts inward, had
inspired the desire for self-improvement. **0,'*
cried she, ** I wish you had another such bright
example now at Chestnut Hills, that I might
make it my pattern."

7*

78 *^B FARBUBfl^S FAMILY.

** My dear," replied Mrs. Ellenwood, after a
«ioment's pause, during which her features fell
into a cast of deep and tender reverence^ ^' Phebe
Burnside was but a faint and imperfect copy of
an original that you may always study. She
looked constantly to Jesus; he was her pattern,
the only model she dared to follow through the
wikule outline and filling-up of duty. It was
looking to him, which gave to her steadiness and
simplicity. Her goodaes^ was not uncertain,
waverins, depending on the circumstances in
which she might be placed; amidst every scene
she rested against the Rock of Ages. She was
not overawed and restrained by the rich and
great; a meek dignity, inspired by daily com-
.munion with the Creator of all, gave her a quiet
self-possession ; while with the poor, the ignorant,
and the forsaken, she was modest and lowly in
her deportment, as if she was one of themselves.
Her soft heart melted into compassionate courtesy
towards those whom her Lord had recommended
to her care. She seemed indeed to look almost
with trembling interest upon beings that her
Saviour had set up as objects upon whom she
was to draw out, as it were, the picture of her
love to him. We ought to imitate her, and all
others whose conduct is worthy of imitation ;
but our constant reference, in thoughts, words,
and actions, should be to Jesus. It is his example
alone, which can set us above the world, can give
us firmness in the hour of trial, strength amidst
temptations, and that nobleness of mind, that
generous forgetfulness of self when others are to

*v

SUNDAY AT CHESTNUT HILLS, 79

^

l>e served. It was verified in her whose memory
we love to cherish, that the righteous shall have
peace ; but her calmness was not the stillness of
midnight; it was like the quiet of a summer
morning, when nature, is peaceful though all in
action. Her great aim was, to find out the de-
sign of God, «nd to work with him; her enjoy-
ment, therefore, was not constituted by the grati-
fications of sense, but by the delightful conscious-
ness of aiming at conformity to the divine will.
She loved all that God has created, but sb^loved
still more the perfections by which they were
formed ; and her peace consisted in the free and
easy exercise of her best and purest feelings.

Chapter VI.

SUNDAY AT CHESTNUT HILLS.

Nature seldom assumes a more lovely appear-
ance, than in her quiet afler the tumult of a sum-
mer storm. It is not the stillness of dull inaction,
but the animated repose of harmonious move-
ment. The birds are in motion, but the quiver-
ing of the wing is hardly perceptible in their
easy flight, and their downy throats seem scarcely
to ewell with the spontaneous music that bursts
from them. The unrufiled flowei-s glow in bright-
er colors; the trees, throughout their motiomess
fdifige, shine out in deeper verdure; while the

V.

80 BUVBAf J^T.bBWiTKXJT ttLLftv

peaceful rainbow gfves token pf ^divine protec-.
tion. Siich an aspeftt seenied t« £mma an ei|i-
blem of the repose of Sunday at jChestnut Hills.
There was a suspension of secular labor, of eager
business; yet, with the goQd, it was not the. quiet
of idleness, but the peace-inspiring exercise of
gratitude and love. The hurry of hop-picking,
which, on the day before, engaged every hand,
had ceased; and the field, so lately resounding
with voices, was as silent as if it had never been
approached by human foot. The green flowers
hung in as much seeming security, as if they were
not on the morrpw to be rent from their vines by
those who were now engaged in the ua^sturbed
and elevating pleasures of the day of'&est. But
the analogy between the bright, liv^^^%)eaceful-
ness of nature, and the devout mind, w^s perhaps
most strikingly illustrated in the deportment of
Madam Ellenwood. The concord within gave to
her an outward serenity, which was brightened
into pleasing animation by an internal spirit of
joy. The use of past struggles, of the storms of
adversity, of the agitations of care, was seen now
in her old age in the growth of moral excellences,
which shone out with new beauty amidst the calm-
ness inspired by the appropriate employments of
the Sabbath.

*' The women were early at the sepulchre, my
children," said she, as she passed the door of the
bedroom occupied by' her grandaughters. They
instantly obeyed the implied summons, and the
family were all assembled at an early houn
Breakfast immediately followed the devotional

^iStrN^AY AT CH^i^VT^TLUi, 81

exercises, and preparation was made for the
whole family to attend public worship. In Mr..
ElIjBnwood, and the lads his sons, who assisted
him on the form, Sunday produced a wonderful
change of '.appearance. Not that they were fine-
ly dressed, but there was an exactness in the
arrangement of their clothes, a punctilious at-
tention to cleanliness, incompatible with their
work-day occupation. To an eye unaccustomed
to these transformations, Mr. EUenwood would
hardly have been recognised, but for the uniform
expression, under all costumes, of solid sense and
rigid int£^rity. Madam Ellenwood's Sunday
dress had been^orn with such scrupulous care
for such a course of years, that it seemed to
invest the wearer at once with a holier frame;
like the garments worn by some nations, upon
which the history of the past is hieroglyphically
painted, awakening affections and emotions cor-^
responding to the pictures which are drawn.

The meeting-house was at the distance of three '
miies. Two light, open wagons accommodated
all of the family who could not conveniently walk.
Scamper, taking the lead, was followed by Blos-
som^ whose frolicsome coif, in the rear, or at her
side, trotted with joyous irregularity through the
winding stony road which led to the church.
Mfflhis was an ancient building of the simplest
•^structure^ standing flat upon the ground, the
, pitched roof unadorned by cupola or spire.
Without the accommodation of porticoes, the
passage to the interior, when the massy iron pad-
lock had been removed, was made at once through

•*

\'

82 SUN0AT Al* CHESTNUT HILLS.

the large double door in front, or by side entran-
ces of narrower dimensions. But, however rude
the exterior, the scene within was always pleas-
ing and impressive; for the congregation ex-
hibited almost the extremes of humanfpxisteiitie,
together with all the intermediate stages of * life.
The minister, as he passed up the aisle, received,
with a reverential inclination of the head, the
salutations of the aged people, who afforded an
interestin^r spectacle. In their mature counte-
nances and simple expression, might almost be
read the secret history of their lives. In this
face, every furrow had added a line of cheerful
good humor; and in that, the soil, anxious
features, the mild, subdued air, marked tl^e Jong
struggle with inward sadness. Here the open,
sunny glow of benevolence shone with perpetual
light; and there the hard features betrayed the
ifarrow bounds in which the spirit, that gave
them expression, had been permitted to move.
The favorite referee in all disputes in the parish
was easily recognised by the calm, keen look of
deep penetration; and the mild, philanthropist
solved the problem at once, how his deeds of
charity could be done so noiselessly, by the down-
cast eye, and the horizontal bearing of the head.
But that loveliest of all appearances, the expres-
sion of serene, benevolent, cheerful contentment,*^
was most conspicuous in an ancient cripple, who,'
from a considerable distance, came limping and
smiling on, aided only by his long-used, polished
crutches, which, when they struck upon the floor
of the church, resounded upon the ear with that

SUNDAY AT CHESTNUT HILLfl. 83

hpme-like sound that seemed to quicken the
afiectioit with which he was regarded.

As the intermission lasted but one hour, none
returned home, but spent the time in instructing
the youK) in reading, or in meditation in the
contiguous grave-yard. It was to the latter place
that Phillis retired, where she was followed by
Aunt Huldah, who led the way to a grave-stone,
which, from its freshness, seemed to have been
lately erected. **Here lies one,'* said she, stoop-
ing to read the inscription, *' who had but little
enjoyment of her own mind. How still every
thing is about her grave! — the slight movement
of the leaves seems only like a soft voice, whis-
pering, that the soul, once so troubled, is now
filled with peace. Poor creature, she knew little
of it here.— It is a sad thing to want inward
quiet."

**What was the cause of her unhappiness?"
asked Phillis.

*' I have not skill enough to tell exactly," an-
swered Aunt Huldah; ** I suppose the doctors
would have called it a weakness of the nerves;
but to me she seemed set up for*an example to
show what may be done with a troubled mind
and a sinking heart. She was of a melancholy
cast from a child."

" O how much to be pitied!" said. Phillis.
" I hope she had kind friends to take care of
her."

" Instead of that, she had to look aftpr others,"
was the reply. ** Did you notice a very lame
man, who came into meeting with crutches? —

p

84 SUNDAY AT C&ESTNUT HILLS.

It was her father. He will be here by and by;
he comes to look at her grave every Sunday."

'' Had we not better go and assist him?" asked
Phillis, as she stepped aside from the shady stand
she had taken.

'^ As soon as he comes within sight," replied
Aunt Huldah, ''he needs a friendly hand;- for
he has been used to as much attention as a prince.
He could not bear his loss with that cheerful
look he does, only that he has an eye to see the
light behind the cloud. Never was a more faith-
ful child than he has lost; — she was always at
his side."

"It must have been difficult, "said Phillis, ",in
such a state of mind as you describe, to perform
even the pleasantest duties with constancy;
though I know a great deal may be overcome by
resolute exertion, and we may perform much
with an aching heart by the aid of patience and
submission."

"Ah yes," said Aunt Huldah; " it was by sub-
mission that she was carried through. She was
willing to su^er, — ^to suffer alone, — without the
help of human consolation. Some would have
tried to relieve themselves by sheddmg tears;
others would have been peevish, and full of com-
plaints, or have given themselves up to a low
way; — but she was always on the alert, guard-
ing her tender conscience. I have watched her
sometimes, when I have known by her hollow
eyes and pale cheeks, that the dark veil had
dropped between her and all that was pretty to
look upon; that her ear was as deaf as the

« .

1-

SUNDAY AT CHESTNUT HILLS. ' 85

adder's to all pleasant sounds, and the merriest
song of the spring birds was like the tolling of a
funeral bell; and^yet, if any one spoke to her,
she would look up and smile, and, with a tongue
that moved as unwillingly as if cleaving to the
roof of her mouth, she would say such kind
things, — be so mild and pleasant, so thoughtful
of others, and try so hard to forget herself, that
she has seemed to me as one set up to show what
the holy Apostle meant in saying, ' When I am
weak, then am I strong.' "

** When the spirit of God is in the heart," said
Phillis, '' it turns all its exercises to some good
account. No state appears so useless to one who
is lying in it, as that of gloom and despondi^ncy;
and yet, if the will be right, God can, and often
does, bless it, by making it the instrument of
great good."

"That is true," said Aunt Huldah, while her
lips trembled with emotion as she added, — ''the
labors of this poor sufferer have often made me
feel my own short-coming. It is the reason I
speak of her so often, that others may get the
good I have from her example. For none but I
knew her inward warfare, none knew that she
was different from other people. I have heard
her held up as a very calm person, one who had
no troubles, no droughts; one in whose bosom
heart's-ease never withered. Not even her own
father has known her sorrow, when, for months
together, she has risen in the morning in such a
gloomy frame, that the prospect of the long, bright
summer day, with all its fine shows and sweet

8

86 ' SUNDAY AT CHESTNUT HILLS.

smells, has seemed to her a burden too ^reat to
be borne; when she would gladly have hid her-
self in some dark corner, and wrung her hands,
and wept out her anguish."

"There was a better refuge for her," said Phil-
lis, ** which I dare say she sought, or she could
not have held up as you say she did; for though,
when in a depressed state, we are often straitened
in prayer, yet the comfort and support are not the
less sure."

"There was the secret," said Aunt Huldah;
"it was there she got her force. She never be-
gan the business of the day till she had opened
her heart to God ; to Him she could make her
case known. 'Twas known, indeed, to Him
without her telling ; — but I mean she could weep
before Him, — she could recount her griefs, and
name over her struggles; she had nothing to
keep back, for her dejecrtion was not caused, as
I fear it often is, by too great a love of this poor
world. A desire to be something different from
what we are, or to have our lot cast otherwise
than it is, does not agree with peace, that very
gentle guest; she flies away to some bosom that
can give her pleasanter companions than pride,
vanity, and ambition. But none of these, as I
said before, was encouraged by her, who lies so
quietly there under that green sod. She felt that
the great object of life was to glorify God, and
to do good to her fellow creatures; and she knew
that her complaints would do neither the one nor
the other. Besides, she knew there was a power
in religion that could keep her up; and it was

SUNDAY Al* CHESTNUT HILLS. 87

her delight to honor that power by showing its
reality. She therefore labored unceasingly with-
in, — never tiring, — looking constantly to God,

— making Him her friend, — depending on Him,

— making it the food of her soul to meet his will
with patience and fortitude. But if her life
sometimes made me f eep, her death filled my
heart with rejoicing. O, what a close was that
of trials borne patiently for Christ's sake! Then
might be seen what God does for the soul that
is faithful to duty, trusting in Him. In her last
hours she said to me, smiling, 'The cloud has
passed over, the bow is in the heavens; — one
end is planted here,' and she laid her hand upon
her hea/t, * and the other stretches into eternity.'
I never shall forget the expression of her counte-
nance when she spoke these words; it was like
the sun coming out upon dripping flowers; — the
pensive, thoughtful look was all at once lightened
up into animation and ioy."

Aunt Huldah turned away to conceal the tears
she could not suppress. It was some minutes
before she could reply to what Phillis had said of
the power of such an example, and of our obliga-
tion to bring the same principles into operation
amidst the various changes to which our feelings
are liable. ** I suppose every body," said she,
recovering herself, ** has some turn of mind
which requires great care to look after and kefep
under. — Now 1 am not apt to be what is called
low-spirited, but my temper is sometimes very
diflferent from what it is at others. There are
days when I take fire at what would only make
me laugh if I were in a right humor."

•I •

'88 SUNDAY AT CHESTNUT HIi;,lA^ . .'

^ \

" Perfect evenness of temper, is not, I belieye,

fiven to any one by nature," said Phillis; ** but
o you not think we may gain much equality of
mind by constantly watching over ourselves—: — "

" By keeping down our prick," interrupted
Aunt Huldah, with an emphatic motion of her
foot.

** Yes," said Phillis, **we do some wrong, or
neglect some duty, and then, instead of humbling
ourselves, we vent our uncomfortable feelings
upon others. If, at such a time, we would be
willing to bear our own self-blame, if we would
endeavor to gain a penitent spirit, if we would
pray for reconciliation with God, how would all
things be changed ! ' Peace and good will' would
seem written on every face we looked upon.
For, when we have been seeking the forgiveness
of God, we are little disposed to be angry with
those about us."

" That is very true," said Aunt Huldah; ** if
God were in our hearts, if we remembered Him,
we could not give way as we do to angry pas-
sions."

** We are too apt," replied Phillis, " to throw
by the * shield of faith.' When we are busy at
our work, we forget that the eye of God is upon
us; and that the little concerns in which we are
engaged are as much under His guidance as the
greatest events. We are therefore off our guard,
and become vexed by trifling disappointments and
perplexities, merely because they are trifling.
If they were important, we should consider from
whose hand they came.; but their very insignifi-
cance leads us into the danger. "

•UX^DAT AT CHESTNUT HILLS. 89

**And we cast out angry words," interrupted
Aunt Huldah, ''as if the expression of wrath
would set matters right. I know it, I understand
it exactly; but what is to be done in these
cases?*' asked she, looking a little guilty.

"Ought we not," replied PhiUis, modestly,
'' to endeavor to recollect at such times the words
of Scripture, — 'Keep thy heart with all dili-
gence,' — • Be faithful in that which is least,' —
'Watch,' — and many other directions, which
teach us that there is no time, and no occasion,
when we are at liberty to act or to speak accord-
ing to the rash movement of unholy feelings?
Would it not be well, amidst temptation, to recol-
lect that we are acting in the presence of Him
who rules the universe ? Would not that amaz-
ing thought keep down the risings' of anger?
Could any one break the law of love with a real-
izing sense on his mind of the presence of Him
who has commanded us to regard our neighbor
as ourselves?"

"But sometimes," persisted Aunt Huldah,
"when my own mind seems to be in a right
frame, the wrong-doing of others oversets me
at once. Do you see that spire westward? —
Look this way; it just tops those maples yon-
der. A congregation worships there, which
does not think, upon some deep matters ex-
actly like our minister. Now some of my neigh-
bors are very severe upon these people, and in-
sist upon it that their hearts are not right, —
that they choose to grope in the dark, — and
many other hard things; while I know them

8*

90 SUNDAY AT CHKSTNUT HILLS. ^

to be excellent folks; I have woven in some of
the families these thirty years, and know them to
be a people of prayer, — true Bereans, studying
the Scriptures daily, and walking in the fear of
God. Bat I shall grow warm, —when that was
just the difficulty I was going to name to you.
Now when I hear reproaches cast upon such per-
aons, and see people look as if they did not be-
lieve one half I said in their favor, only because
they view some heavenly things not precisely ip
the light we do, I get very angry, and, in the
midst of the heat, am about a^ unjust as my
ixeighbors."

*^ Charity slips away while you are fighting in
her cause," said Phillis.

** Exactly so; — and this I know is wrong; for
I take it, that is not true charity which is exer-
cised only towards particular persons. I must
not only bear with those who differ from me in
opinion, but also with such as cannot view them
just as I do. Love should be exercised towards
all; but it is the hardest thing in the world to
love the bigoted. Do you not think so? '*

**If we carried them incur hearts," replied
Phillis, * * when we make our approaches to God
in prayer; if we sought with earnestness that they
might behold the height, the length, the depth,of
spiritual things, gaze with the eye of faith upon
the majesty of God, discern the glorious character
of Jesus till they were led to humility, our affec*
tions would be enlisted on their side ; we should
say nothing to provoke, but should endeavor to
prove, rather by conduct than words, that there

r '^i-

SUNDAY AT CHESTNUT RILLS. 9l

is * one spirit,' ^nd that a spirit of love,-— of which
discord cannot partake."

" I would riot have you think," said Aunt Hul-
dah, afler a few moments of thoughtful silence,
''because I am so friendly to the pOoplf of
West End, that I believe as they do, or that I do
not love what I consider the truth as well as my
neighbors. I have tried to seek it as well as
my poor ability would allow, and I am sure I
love the light which has shone in upon me, and
would not give it up for all that this world, yea,
that ten thousand worlds could give me. But
this is one of the truths I have learned from my
Bible, — ^that we have no right to judge the hearts*
of our fellow creatures. Alas! if we only knew
it, we have enough to do to take care of our
own."

Aunt Huldah was speaking with so much ear-
nestness, that the approach of the lame mourner
was unobserved, till he was standing at the grave
of his daughter. After having said a few wordt,
she retreated as Phillis had before done.

When the second service was closed, whiok
was at an early hour in the afternoon, it was a
perilous undertaking for any pedestrian to set oat
with the numerous wagons, which started from
the long line of sheds that had afforded them a
secure shelter. The neighing horses, eager to
press forward on the first hint of release from
their long restraint, were scarcely less jocund
than the colts (for Blossom intruded no novelty
upon her companion's,) which, fi-isking in all di-
rections,' threw the dust now this way, and now

92 SUNDAY AT CHESTNUT HILLS.

that, with every movement of their merry heels;
yet compensating even to a foot-passenger for
all this disturbance by the inspiring airiness of
their appearance, as with streaming tails, and
long, awkward legs, they danced along in the
wildness of their spirits. To Emma the scene
was full of interest; but the romance of it was
entirely lost upon Aunt Huldah, whose fluttering
heart turned with instinctive longing to the se-
curity of the quiet woods, through which, from
her own snug cottage, she usually took the short
two-mile cut to the church, finding little impedi-
ment in the intervening brook, which demanded
only the divestment of shoes and stockings.
Easy as her present conveyance was, she could
not, amidst the seeming jeopardy of setting ofl*,
summon the gratitude which her heart was ready
to feel, the first moment after several opening
roads had dispersed the procession; — which,
broken into many parties, was seen ascending
hills, gliding through valleys,, appearing from be-
hind thickets, winding through cross-roads, till
at last, one afler another having gained their own
door, the smoke was seen curling in blue folds
from every chimney, and a sober repast refresh-
ed the spirits for the study of useful books, cheer-
ful domestic intercourse, and the interchange of
good thoughts and kind deeds.

PEACEFUL DAYS AT WOODLAND. 93

Chapter VII.

PEACEFUL DAYS AT WOODLAND.

On Monday, when Robert returned from
school, he brought two letters from the post-office.
One was from Mr. Spencer, in which he declared
his intention to return home in two years from
the date of his letter ; the other from Mr.
Davenport, urging his wife to improve the oppor-
tunity of coming tp New Orleans, afibrded by the
return of some friends who had been on a visit
to the North. This arrangement would have
entirely met her wishes, but for the reluctance
she felt to leaving Mrs. Spencer and her child,
to whom she had now become equally attached.
Emma's gentleness and forbearance had con-
quered the prejudice with w^ich she had long re-
garded her ; and, on the other hand, Mrs. Spencer
had learned to estimate the good qualities of her
aunt, though obscured by the obliquities of a dis-
agreeable temper. A mutual estee)^ had grown
up between them, and rendered the parting a
painful one. ^

Emma found so much kindness in the family
in which she was residing, that she resolved to
make Chestnut Hills her permanent residence till
her husband's return. The habit of exerting her
mind upon useful subjects, which she had taken
pains to form in the prospect of becoming a
teacher, prevented any weariness she might other-
wise haVe experienced from her secluded and

>
94 PEACEFUL DAYS AT WOODLAND.

monotonous mode of life; and it was lier happi-
ness to look back, and bless the hand which had
thus guided her to mental effort, through circum-
stances, which seemed, at the time, so adverse to
inward peace.

For some months before her husband's ex-
pected return, Emma's attention was absorbed by
the evident indisposition of Phillis. There was
a change in her countenance, a something about
her, even more spiritual, benignant, and tender,
than her ordinary manner. When she spoke of
divine things, it was with a biighter joy. Enrnia
was surprised, not knowing that she had any
musical talent, to hear her singing to Ellen in
tones of almost angelic sweetness; and her whole
deportment was that of one, whose spirit, even
before it lefl its earthly tabernacle, was partaking
of heavenly blessedness. Though she had sedu-
lously concealed the symptoms of pulmonary
disease, Emma was not surprised when an ap-
parently slight cold brought on a fever. In the
midst of the delirium it produced, her thoughts
seemed constantly intent on acts of kindness.
Whenever the mercy of God, the love of Jesus,
the hopes and pxomises of a future world, were
spoken of in her lucid intervals, smiles of heaven-
ly peace testified her recognition of the sentiment.
Her tenderness for others seemed strikingly re-
warded by the gentleness with which her meek
spirit was removed; it passed to higher scenes
with the quietness of an infant's sleep. When
the clergyman, in reading at the funeral, as was
customary at Chestnut Hills, a passage of Scrip-

PEACEFUL DAYS AT WOODLAND. 95

ture, came to the sublime declaration, ''This
mortal shall put on immortality," an exulting hope
sprang to the eyes of Aunt Huldah, ^s she cast
them on the mild countenance that lay before her
in the peaceful majesty of death.

To Emma her spirit seemed ever near. She
could not turn her eyes where there was not some
proof of her vigilant care, her faithful service.
She loved to retire, for soothing meditation, to the
little bed-room that Phillis called her own, to read
there the passages, which had been marked by
the hand so dear, in the devotional books which
Phillis had made her study, and the precepts of
which she had so beautifully exemplified in her
life.

These tender recollections gave way in time
to the hopes awakened by the prospect of Mr.
Spencer's return home. As it was expected that
the vessel, in which he was to embark, would
arrive in New York, about the middle of August,
and that he would be detained there on busineiss
for some weeks, every mail, after that date, was
impatiently looked for. The morning of each
post-day opened with fresh hopes, which were, by
an effort of self-command, cherished with some
degree of calmness, till the ooachman's horn
announced the arrival of the inail. Then they
became too agitating to permit her to remain
quiet, and she walked fortn to meet Robert, that
she might the sooner receive the letter she so
confidently expected. Nothing passed between
them. Robert's countenance told the disappoint-'
ment, and she returned home consoling herself

X ^

96 PEACEFUL dXYS AT WOODLAND.

with the hope that ,her> husband intended, by a
surprise, to increase her pleasure. Thus, the
failure of a letter only quickened the expectation
of his more immediate presence. Whatever she
thought would be particularly agreeable to him,
was daily prepared; and, starting at every sound,
she anxiously looked abroad, or watched for hours
at the window which commanded the most distant
prospect of approaching objects.

Two months ^ad passed in this sickening alter-
nation of hope and disappointment, when an an-
swer was received to an inquiry she had made of
the owners of the vessel. Its arrival had been
expected through the last three months, but hope
was still entertained that there had been some
detention in India. What was but a forlorn hope
to the merchant, was certainty to Emma, and
again her wasted figure was seeii in the attitude
of eager watchfulness.

''My child," said Madam Ellen wood, casting
a look of pity on the dejected, abstracted air,
with which she turned from the window where
she had been riveted, till the obscurity of the
evening rendered it no longer a desirable station,
"my child, your soul is 'thirsting, as the hart
panteth after the water-brooks^ ' tor an earthly
friend. If God permits you not to drink again
from that uncertain stream, it is that he may draw
you to a fountain of everlasting love.'*

"I know," replied Emma, " that God is good.
The time has been, when it was not merely the
acknowledgment of the lips, but the strong inter-
nal conviction, that afHictiona had been sent in

4i*

PBACBFaL DATS AT WOODLAHD. '. 97

lore, that the loss of a tempojral good had resulted
in higher happiness than the possession of it had
ever alforded; by giving me clever views of my-
self, awakening me to duty, drawing me nearer to
my Heavenly Father. — But this blessedness is
past," continued she, raising her tearless eyes.
*'This dreadful suspense, these terrible fears,
have withered my heart, — it cannot feel."

"Say not tfo, my dear," said Mrs. EUenwood;
" was not the damsel raised to life.^ was not Laz-
arus called from the tomb ? and cannot your heart
be quickened again .^"

'^ I cannot now, " said Emma, mournfully,
" hear the calling voice. I have tried to pierce
the veil, to reach tne mercy-srat, to see the glory,
to listen to the spoken words, — but I cannot hear
them."

»■

May I apiffllfto yoi^,^ asked Madam Ellen-
wood, ** as friend to friend?" Have you not been
like the rich young man, running and kneelins
down, but leaving the place sorrowfully, with
your treasure unresigned? Hm^ there been no re-
serve ^ — has all been given up ? — your husband,
his return, his health, life, all, fivtin up to the
disposal of God.'^ And casing aii away but the
' shield of faith, ' are you stan<Sng ready to follow
your Master through whatever paths he may lead
you, to drink of his cup, to bear the appointed
cross, to say in his spirit, with true, unhesitating
resignation, * Thy will be done ' ? Had it been
so, I am sure the strengthening angel woul^
have come, the light of God's countenance woula

9

9^* PEACEFUL DATS AT WOODLANI^

■

have supplied to you the want of evexy other
friend."

** I know, — I acknowledge," said Emma,
" that I have Ibeen far from such a state. But
this strong afiection, — it has seized upon me so
powerfully, it is so absorbing, — how can I drive
it hence?- how destroy it?"

'* God knows," replied Mrs. Ellenwood, " the
creature he has formed. It was he who opened
the spring of \oyfi within you ; he does not desire
that it should be dried up, but deepened and
made broader, that its waters may spring up in
fresher purity. God does not take away the ob-
ject upon which we have doated, with the design
to destroy love, but that it may be turned on Him^
— enlarged, exalted, satisfied, in its exercise
upon his perfections, his works and ways; that
it may no longer be hemmed A 4)y the narrow
bounds of a few peculiar ties, but be spread out
over the whole human family. He, from whom
all happiness flows, knows how to impart it to his
creatures, and He will pour it into the heart that
is given to Him. You know what it is to desire
earnestly, to ' hunger and thirst' for the presence
of one dear object; — your ordinary food is taste-
less; friends com« and go, and you heed them
not; every thing is referred to his return; all
things are made ready, — you watch, — listen, —
every thought, every concern, every feeling, is
engaged in this one great desire of your heart.
Turn your afiections with the same intensity on
things above, and God will give you a new life.
Tour soul will be freed from this dreadful prison

,1

OOl

|*KACEFUL DAYS AT WOODLAND. -I^^

in which it is now confined^ and will mouo^ up 88
on eagles' wings ; ' it will reach the bosom of Grod
and find repose.' " • *

These words, uttered in a tonc^of full, unwaver-
ing faith, touched Emma's heart. A new con-
viction of the goodness and the love of God sub-
dued its rebellion. '' O, say no more," said she,
bursting into tears; " I feel my guiltiness; I ac-
knowledge my unworthiness to claim the name of
him, whose meat it was to do an<l to suffer the will
of God." A change soon became evident in her
countenance and manner. Her restlessness was
checked, her gloomy despondency disappeared.
And when a letter, six months afler, was received,
wijth the intelligence that the wreck of the vessel
h^d been discovered in which Mr. Spencer em-,
barke^ the widow Realized the supports and con-
solation's which had been promised by her pious
counsellor.

In every letter from Mr. and Mrs. Davenport,
were the strongest assurances of affection, urging
Emma to depend on them exclusively for the sup-
ply of her pecuniary wants. But, though not un-
willing to receive, she preferred making some
useful exertion. She devoted the summer months
to teaching a school, and divided the winter be-
tween the instruction of Ellei^ her own mental
improvement, and whatever employment was giv-
en her by the farmer's wives and daughters, in-
making or remodelling their apparel. In the view
of this simple people, nothing was taken firom the .
respectability of Mrs. Spencer by these labors;
her* industry seemed to them worthy of alVpraise.

100 PEACEFUL DATS AT WOODLAND.

Her gentle deportment, her refined manners, ap-
peared not to them the less attractive, because
tier hands refused no task that they could accom-
plish. Nor was 'she at all exalted in their estima-
tion, when, in a few years, Mr. Davenport having
again become /ich, he restored to Emma the
property her grandfather, had lost through the
failure of the house of which he and Mr. Spencer
had been partners.

Woodland beitig for sale, Mr. Davenport direct-
ed his agent to purchase it, and Mrs. Spencer
returned to her early home, — returned, a widow
and an orphan. Many outward sources of enjoy-
ment had been dried up; but there were springs
opened within. There was peace, the offspring
of self-discipline; — there was the deep conviction,
that from every trial, which is borne witl» resig-
nation to the divine will, and made the occasion
of virtuous inward effort, there arises a new capa-
city for happiness, — happiness, which, commenc-
ing in this life^ will be perfected in another.

END.

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